


The Destiny You Sold

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Accidental Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry Potter, Dom Draco, Domestic, Drunken Confessions, Dubious Consent, Everyone Ships Draco/Harry, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Harry Comes Out, Hickeys, Intergluteal Sex, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Knitting, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Living Together, Love Bites, M/M, Magical Prick Recovery, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Prick Cozies, Questioning Sexuality, Semi-Public Sex, Sharing a Bed, Shower Sex, Sleepy Sex, Sub Harry Potter, Top Draco Malfoy, Unintended Arousal, Untimely Arousal, Voyeurism, Wandlore, Wandmaker Harry Potter, Watching, shop owner draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Draco knits, Harry makes wands, and things get very tangled up between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [birdsofshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/gifts).



> Birds. OH BIRDS. Oh my goodness, but your list of things you like was like a veritable treasure trove of fascinating things to choose from. I have so many pages of notes because I kept thinking “oh hey I can include that” and then next thing I knew, I was writing you a small novel. Thank you for all your incredible inspiration. I had such an absolute blast writing this piece, even when it threatened to overwhelm. I am ever grateful to E and C for keeping me on track and making sure everything makes sense and is spelled correctly in the end. All mistakes that remain came in during my final edit and are mine all mine. And of course, thank you the wonderful mods for being so patient and helpful; you are wonderful.
> 
> The title is from the lyrics of the Police song “Wrapped Around Your Finger” because I knew I was going with a strings of fate theme from the beginning.

**Chapter 1**

Draco carefully unpacks the bin of bulky yarn, the strands thick and soft under his fingers. He lays some out on the tabletop, arrayed in a chaotic rainbow of colour to showcase each dye lot, then stows the rest safely in the cabinets beneath. The sign comes last: _Thick For Her Pleasure, bulky weight, please touch_. One corner of his lip lifts as he rolls his eyes at the name, but there’s nothing he can do since Millicent is in charge of naming the different fiber weights, and she claims the suggestive names sell more product.

She’s probably right, but it still rankles when Draco has to say _so that’ll be two Thick For Her Pleasure_ to some old lady who reminds him of what he imagines a doting grandmother might be like.

Millicent, on the other hand, seems to find it amusing. Of _course_ she does.

“This is the last box.” Greg sets it down next to the remaining empty table and opens it up, wincing slightly as he does so. “Bloody hell, that’s bright. Mil, what was Marc thinking when he made this?”

“He was thinking that folks like bright colours,” Millicent calls back from her spot behind the till. “What the bloody hell did you think he was thinking, Greg?”

“You should know by now not to ask ridiculous questions of the pregnant woman,” Draco murmurs.

“The pregnant woman has excellent hearing,” Millicent points out. “She also wants tea and ice cream, so we’ll be going out for a bit.” She moves slowly, her heavy belly leading the way as she walks over to join them. “Draco, finish setting up, and get all the prices marked. There might be some folks coming through this afternoon, but I’m sure it’ll be a slow day, and you’ve got the whole rest of the week to set up—we’re technically not open until Saturday. On the other hand, Saturday is the first Hogsmeade weekend, so you’d best get all the wrinkles worked out before you’re on your own with half of Hogwarts in here.”

Draco can’t think what half of Hogwarts would be doing in a yarn shop, but he nods to Millicent—he might be willing to provoke her, but he will _not_ argue with her—just the same. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think our fibers are wrinkled, Millicent,” he says blandly, while Greg snorts and Millicent looks like she’s trying to hold back a laugh.

She pats him on the back. “I do like you,” she says. “Greg and I won’t be gone long, just an hour, maybe two. Oh, and don’t be surprised if Marc shows up. Said he’s got some information for you on the latest, some new sheep he’s been raising. He wants to bring his experimental lots here.”

Draco’s smile is thin but professional. “Of course, Millicent. Go get your ice cream,” and likely a quick pregnant shag, he thinks, from the way her hand is lingering on her husband’s arse. “I’ll take care of the shop.”

It is _his_ shop after all. Oh, it belongs to Marcus Flint and Millicent Goyle, but in the end, this particular new shop is _his_. He helped finance the opening with his own meager available funds, and he will work in the shop while Millicent and Marcus provide the inventory. Hiring is up to him, should he decide he needs help, as are the hours, sales, promotions, and anything else that might occur. The only thing not under his control is the stock, the source of the yarn, and the bloody names Millicent attaches to each weight.

And the colours, he reminds himself, as he opens the last box wide. _Kiss My Toes, sock weight, spoil your feet!_ He sighs as he places the sign in the centre of the table, then starts pulling skeins free. Not a single one of them is the same, a chaotic rush of colours that means that no two socks will ever be exactly alike. Not that Draco would ever _knit_ a sock. Draco does not knit. But even he can see that there is nothing here that matches, and he wonders who they will appeal to.

Perhaps he needs to lure someone like Luna Lovegood into the shop; surely she’d be thrilled to find something like this.

He picks up one of the skeins, unwraps a bit of thread at the end and lets it wrap around his finger. The tip of the skein is red, and it is silky soft, trailing over his skin in a way that leaves him shivering. When he wraps it, no matter how tightly he tries to draw it, it relaxes again, moving back to a soft caress that is just the perfect size.

There’s a reason why Flint yarns are so popular, and a reason why no one would even think to argue with an old Pure-blood family turned sheep farmer. They aren’t simply perfect fibers, they are perfectly magical in every way.

Draco unwinds it from his fingertips and drops the skein back into the pile on the table, shoring them up so that removing one skein won’t topple the entire mountain. He retrieves two baskets from the back room, re-organizes another display for the third time to show it off to the best advantage ( _Kitten Toes, sock weight, as soft and cuddly for your feet as tiny cats_ ). The solid colours are either bold or pastel, but every single one stands strongly on its own merit, and after a half hour he thinks he might have found the best order of the colours for the display.

There’s a banging outside, and he frowns, pokes his head out to find Flint on a ladder, arms raised over his head as he works to get a sign into position and fastened in place. “Almost done,” Marc calls down, voice gruff. “Just give me one more minute… there. You’re all set, Malfoy.”

“My best friend married your cousin two years ago, and I’m opening your second shop,” Draco says dryly. “I think we might actually be on a familiar first name basis by now.” He leaves off that by now, Millicent might well be his other best friend, for all that Pansy and Blaise have trooped off to the continent and abandoned him.

Not that Pansy calls it abandonment. She calls it _exploring Italy and every other country she can possibly reach_ while Blaise terms it an extended honeymoon. They are not _here_ , however, nor are they particularly easy to reach, so Draco is free to choose his own terms, and _abandoned_ works well for him.

Marcus ignores him, climbing down the ladder and looking up at the sign. “What do you think?”

The sign holds one skein of yarn with two ends, both tangled in a pair of knitting needles, swirling around the sign in a constant shifting trail of string. The strand shines bright red against the wood of the sign, the letters spelled out in yarn: _Strings of Fate_.

It’s perfect.

“I designed it. Of course it’s perfect,” Draco says. He yanks open the door, motions inside. “Come in and see how the shop’s set up. We’re ready to go, as soon as you’re ready to open. Unless you want Millicent here, in which case you’ll need to wait as she’s gone off with Greg.”

Marcus makes a noise, nodding as if he knows what that means as well as Draco does. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m wanting to see the rest of the new shops, take stock of what the competition is, what might draw folks in.”

“Is there something other than the Wheezes shop?” Draco’s store is at the end of a new lane in Hogsmeade, with the new branch of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes anchoring the turn out of town with a huge shop. There are a half dozen other shops on the road, but last Draco knew, none of them had been filled just yet. He expects that eventually there will be a bustling business down this way, but for now he expects the first few months to be peaceful, no matter what Millicent claims about half of Hogwarts.

“There’s Bertie’s Glacial Surprise, the new frozen treat shop down the way. Same bloke who does the every flavor beans.” Marcus glances at the door, as if he’s reviewing signs in his mind, and Draco supposes that he is. For a bloke everyone thought was as stupid as a troll in Hogwarts, Draco’s come to learn that he’s actually quite sharp. Has a mind that never forgets a detail; he’s just rot at reading long passages, and even worse at writing. Give him a sign with a picture on it, or a diagram for Quidditch, though, and Marcus will remember it always. “An owl-order station for books, just a small shop, really. And then there’s Ollivanders next door.”

“Oh?” That’s a surprise, and Draco can’t think Ollivander himself will be pleased to find out exactly who his neighbour is. Detaining the man in his dungeon has not endeared Draco to him, and he can’t blame him. He tried to offer restitution, but Ollivander refused to allow him in his shop, even when Draco was putting in hours at Marcus and Millicent’s shop on Diagon Alley.

Marcus just grunts, and Draco has no more response for that. Business is the more important thing right now. They’ve a shop to set up, and Draco wants to ensure that he knows _exactly_ what he’s selling, even when Marcus might not know exactly what he’s making. He makes sure the front door is locked to everyone other than Millicent and Greg, then motions for Marcus to join him in the back room.

“Millicent said you’ve got notes for me.” Draco opens the conversation as he gets out a piece of parchment and a quill. Marcus’s notes will be entirely memorized; if Draco wants to remember them, though, he’ll need to write them down. “Let’s start with the newest product. Is there anything in particular I need to know about _Kiss My Toes_?”

Marcus settles his weight onto one of the chairs, and Draco makes a mental note to pick up something a bit sturdier since it sounds like the owner will be there often. “Well,” Marcus rumbles slowly, his voice dropping. “Are you the sort of bloke that’s ever had a foot fetish?”

Millicent isn’t the only one with a perverted sense of humour.

Draco sighs, and dutifully writes down _yes it will really suck your toes_ and waits with his quill poised over the parchment. “And what if someone decides to make a prick cozy instead of socks?” he asks dryly, and Marcus just grins. Because of _course_ he’s already thought of it. “Right then, moving on. Is this a stable product? Is there anything else we should expect in the meantime?”

“I’ll be bringing round a first attempt at _Sweet Caress_ —it’s a worsted weight for jumpers—once I’ve got it squeezing a bit less,” Marcus says thoughtfully. “Might want to warn folks that _Kiss My Toes_ gets a bit over-anxious as well sometimes. Best to wear it often, so it doesn’t feel slighted.”

Jealous socks. Jealous, brightly coloured, mis-matched socks.

Or prick cozies.

This is Draco’s life now.

#

He decides to open for business the next morning, even though the grand opening is still several days away. He spends the morning quietly puttering around the shop, re-arranging displays and making certain everything’s just right. Marcus had only stayed an hour, leaving once he’d told Draco just how much he trusted him with this new business. Millicent and Greg had stayed longer once they returned, making sure the Floo was properly open to the correct people so that Draco would have an easy commute in the morning. They’d left for dinner in London, then gone their separate ways.

And now the shop belongs to Draco alone. Millicent is at the one in Diagon Alley, and Marcus is home somewhere in Yorkshire, tending his sheep and spinning his yarn. Greg’s off doing whatever it is that he does—Draco’s never figured it out, other than tending to Millicent hand and foot now that she’s pregnant.

And Draco is here in Hogsmeade, dusting surfaces and whiling away the first few hours of the day in a shop that nobody seems to have noticed.

Perhaps he ought to take up knitting. Everyone always asks if he does it, but it’s simply never appealed. His hands fumble the needles, and perhaps that’s because it seems like making fabric with a pair of wands, and he has a difficult relationship with his wand as it is.

His _actual_ wand, not the _Three Sizes Bigger, Best Wand Ever_ knitting needles that Millicent makes him stock.

His wand has simply never been _right_ after the war, not since Potter gave it back to him as soon as the trial was done. He’d somehow expected everything to go back to the way it was, but the wand feels limp in his hand, unresponsive, and there’s nothing he can do to make it better.

He tried to go to Ollivanders, either to get it repaired or buy a new one, but once again, Ollivander’s extended stay in the Malfoy dungeon had burned that bridge for him years before. Draco really couldn’t blame him.

So Draco muddles through, and he despises knitting for reminding him that sometimes a stick is only a stick. He doesn’t envy those who knit like the needles are an extension of their arm, much like magic used to be for him. _He doesn’t_.

By the time the noon hour arrives, Draco needs a break. He puts the sign in the door, sets the spell on the timer to give him an hour until he returns, and leaves it counting down the time for those who might be curious. If anyone even makes it this far down the road. Perhaps he can walk into the middle of town, tell people about the new store while he finds something to eat for lunch.

Which will not be ice cream. Draco was never a fan of Every Flavor Beans; he can’t think they’ll be better in frozen form.

He locks the door and glances across the street where a large crate stands open, two women giggling as they carry things out. Clothes, by the look of it, possibly shoes and jewelry as well. Draco isn’t certain they’ll have the same demographic, but at least a proper boutique is usually guaranteed to draw the customers into the area.

One of the ladies spots Draco and lifts her fingers in a little wave. Her dark blond hair curls across half her face, hiding her features, but Draco can see that she’s young, perhaps around his age. She turns away to whisper to her dark-haired companion, and the giggles rise in the air again. Draco turns away; he has no time for giddiness.

He’s just passing his neighbour when he realises that the door stands open and a pallet stacked high with small boxes floats through it. Draco pauses, gaze narrowing, because if he’s not mistaken… those are _wands_. The pallet drops with a small thump somewhere indoors, and Draco glances up, seeking out a sign.

_Ollivanders_.

He’d entirely forgotten what Marcus had told him, put it out of his mind as something to be forgotten until he needed to pay attention to it. His chest squeezes tight, and he wonders if he’s going to have to apologize _again_ , if he’ll have to bring tea every day before Ollivander will be able to stomach having a shop next to a Malfoy. But he must have _known_ , shouldn’t he have? Although Strings of Fate itself is owned by Millicent and Marcus.

It’s not a _problem_. Draco refuses to look at this as a _problem_.

It’s a _solution_.

And he should grab the bull by the horns, so to speak. He should walk in, step right up, apologize once more, and… “Potter?” 

Because that’s most definitely _not_ Ollivander.

Potter stands in the doorway, nudges his glasses up his nose and pushes at his fringe to keep it from falling in his eyes. “Malfoy? What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I work here.” Draco jabs a finger in the direction of his shop, where the clock ticks away and he can see that he’s already lost ten minutes of the hour he set for himself for lunch.

“You work… here?” Potter’s words trail slowly, his hand lowered to the stack of wand boxes behind him. “I know Luna is…” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, and it sounds as if we’re to be neighbours. Don’t worry, I won’t be barging in to bother you. I don’t expect to do a lot of sales here as it is—more repairs when we can do them, sales when they decide they need something new, and I’ll be working on my craft. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Draco’s mouth works, open and closed, no sound coming out. There’s a titter in the background, and a cheerful shout of _Harry!_ that is almost enough to make him turn around to look who’s calling. One thing at a time. “You make wands,” Draco says slowly. “You _repair_ wands.” His mind is working quickly, almost too quickly to keep up with. He touches his pocket where his wand rests as if he might use it any moment now. “Would you be willing to touch mine?”

Potter’s eyebrows go up, and the laughter in the background is louder. “Would I touch your… wand?”

“Yes, my _wand_ , Potter,” Draco says dryly. “That useless stick of wood that I carry about, just in case I might need to do something magical. It’s not behaving and Ollivander refuses to listen to me.”

“Can’t think why.” Potter turns away, starts directing boxes to their places on the shelves. They fly away in a pattern that Draco can’t discern, but it obviously means something to Potter as he nods along with the movement. “And yes, I’d be willing to take a look at your wand.” He looks out across the street, makes a shooing hand motion. “Tomorrow. Bring it by tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can figure out what’s wrong. And if need be, we’ll get you fitted out with something new. But fixing wands is something I’m good at. Haven’t yet met a wand that doesn’t respond to my touch.”

“It’s lunchtime, Harry.” 

Draco fights against instinct, stiffening rather than taking a step back when the small woman simply _appears_ between them. It can’t be apparition—there was no sound—but she certainly didn’t walk across the street, either. She stares at Draco as frankly as he stares back, her eyes bright and round, pale hair in a chaotic halo around her face. “Lovegood,” he says finally, and she smiles gently.

“You ought to call me Luna,” she replies. “And I forgive you. Your basement wasn’t as terrible as it could have been. I’m certain Ollivander will come round someday, and besides, maybe it’s best if Harry’s the one to handle your wand. I’m quite positive he’ll have a much better touch than Ollivander would.”

“Luna.” Potter pauses after her name, on the breath of a sigh. “I’ll be over in just a bit. Tell Lavender and Parvati to go on inside; Ron and I already have lunch from Molly and I’ll make sure to get it there before he eats it all, all right?”

Draco’s reeling from the sudden influx of company and forgiveness. He says nothing as Luna crosses back to the shop across the way, and the women all wave before disappearing inside. He says nothing as Potter sends the now empty pallet back through the door where it rests on the sidewalk for a moment before disappearing with an audible _pop_. “Tomorrow,” he finally says, voice tight.

“Tomorrow, Malfoy. Come over early, before I get too deep into the work for the day. It’s always best to handle damaged wands when I’m fresh.” Potter shoots him a grin that surprises Draco, almost teases him into smiling back before he schools it into a polite nod.

“Very well.” He touches his pocket once more, as if to reassure himself that the wand is there and behaving for the moment, then nods to bid farewell. “I shall see you in the morning.”

As he walks away, he makes it as far as the tiny owl-order shop before he hears Potter calling after him. “Malfoy! I don’t recommend the ice cream today. Ron’s been in already and the flavor of the day is phlegm.”

Draco shudders. “Thank you for the warning, but I’m not overly fond of ice cream to begin with, so I doubt it will ruin my day to avoid it.” He doesn’t hear a response from Potter, and he manages to resist looking back to see what he’s doing. It’s not as if he needs to know. He’ll have plenty of time to watch Potter and the others while they wile away the hours in their respective shops.

It’s not as if Draco _cares_ about Potter, after all.

All he wants is to have his wand working properly again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Harry manages to avoid the topic of Malfoy all through lunch, even though Lavender and Parvati give him curious looks, while Luna has a placid smile and Padma seems to be trying to see right through him. He suspects he’s still paying for trodding on the feet of a Patil twin—he doesn’t even remember which one was actually his date at the Yule Ball, although he currently suspects it might have been Padma. Ron, thankfully, is blissfully ignorant, simply stuffing his mouth with the first dish he managed to get his hands on. Harry follows suit, stumbling through handling his fork until he manages to get the shaking of his hand under control.

Lavender reaches for an empty container, looks like she’s about to say something, and Harry nudges Luna’s knee with his own where they sit cross-legged. “So,” he says, just a little too loudly. “Do you have another date with Dudley?”

Luna’s smile blooms bright. “Oh yes. He said something about a film and ice cream. I thought I could bring him here—”

“ _Phlegm_ ,” Ron says vehemently, coughing and needing a drink of water. “Bloody hell, Luna, do _not_ introduce Dudley to Bertie’s Glacial Surprise. Or at least wait until it’s a good flavor. Like sunburst. Or wildflower.”

Luna tilts her head, regards Ron carefully. “You should be more open, Ron. Every flavor has its benefits.”

“So this is what, your third date?” Harry glances at the other girls, offers the carton he was about to eat from, and Parvati takes it eagerly.

“Seventh,” Luna says. “If dinner one night and breakfast the next morning count as two.”

“You _slept_ with Harry’s cousin?” Lavender giggles brightly, tucking her hair behind her ear before she catches herself, lets the long curl fall across her cheek again. 

“I slept for part of the night. It was all sex before that, and again when we woke up.” Luna expression is gentle and pleased. “Dudley is a considerate lover, and he was quite intrigued by some of the charms I tried. He’s not as afraid of the magical world as you think, Harry. We had a long discussion about—”

Harry coughs loudly, miming choking, and Ron wisely hands him a glass of water that Harry doesn’t actually need. “No, no, Luna, you can keep those details private,” Harry tells her. “I don’t need to know about your sex life with my cousin.”

“Would you rather talk about Draco?” Luna asks, amidst a fresh outburst of giggles from Lavender and Parvati, and Harry feels the heat warming his skin.

“Actually, I need to get back to unpacking the wands. We open tomorrow.” Not that Harry expects much business before Saturday and the first Hogsmeade weekend, but it makes a decent excuse. “I’ve only got Ron today, too, so I’d best get things done while I have his help.”

“You know we’ll always be right here, if you need anything.” Lavender leverages herself off the floor, then holds out a hand to help Harry up. She’s got a good grip now, strength imbued from Greyback’s bite. Harry always looks her in the eye, makes sure she knows he’s looking at _her_ , not trying to look past the scars.

“I know, Lav, and I appreciate it, but you have a lot to do here.” The store is still mostly empty, with racks for shoes and clothes all set up, and tiny wizard spaces and nooks for hidden treasures, not to mention changing rooms. The thing is, Harry doesn’t see a bit of the merchandise actually unpacked and in place yet. It’s still in boxes, littered across countertops, or lying in chaotic piles in the corners. “I feel like I ought to be offering to help _you_.”

“There are four of us and only one of you,” Padma points out. “Basic maths, Harry. Go on, do your thing. We’ll be done before you, I’m thinking, as long as Lavender and Parvati don’t get lost in the makeup again.”

“We wouldn’t!” Parvati protests.

“I’ve got an entire tray of lip gloss you haven’t seen yet,” Lavender tells her, and just like that they’re off to tear open a box in the corner.

“I’ll come over and see you later, Harry,” Luna offers. “You might need help.”

It’s the most unlikely grouping he could think of to run a shop together, but as Harry makes his way out, he thinks it’s going to work. They have Lavender’s sense of high fashion, and Parvati’s traditionalism, combined with a smart business sense from Padma, and a whimsical freedom from Luna. As imperfect as it is, it all seems to slot together perfectly in the end.

“Are you going to be all right with Malfoy next door, mate?” Ron bumps him as they go through the door to Ollivanders together. “I heard you talking.”

“He’s working in a yarn shop, and I’m working with wands,” Harry says dryly. “Other than fixing his wand for him, I doubt we’ll have much to do with each other at all. And the fix will be simple. I’ve used the wand, after all, if it’s the same one I gave back to him. That’s most likely the problem, and it might not even be fixable. But we’ll get that sorted, then he’ll go hide amongst his skeins and I’ll make wands and we’ll be _fine_.”

“I wonder if he’d give me a discount on something for Mum,” Ron muses. “If you ever decide to get off your arse and shag him, Harry, let me know. There ought to be a discount for the best friend of your shag, yeah?” Ron moves past Harry, starts working on a fresh load of boxes that were delivered while they were at lunch.

Harry can’t quite breathe. There isn’t enough air getting into his lungs, or out of them when he exhales, but he keeps trying until there’s a low whistling sound and _there it is_ , actual air inside his body. He holds onto it, closes his eyes and counts to three, and when he opens them again, Ron’s looking at him strangely.

“You okay, mate?”

“You just said _shag_ and _Malfoy_ in the same sentence,” Harry manages to say.

Ron shrugs. “Well, you were always following him around in Hogwarts. You were bloody well _obsessed_ , mate.”

“He was always _doing something_ in Hogwarts.”

“And since you’ve broken it off with Ginny, and obviously Cho was a bad time for you, I thought maybe you’re looking for something different. You’ve spent more time obsessed with Malfoy than you ever did with either them combined.” Ron opens a box, whistles to see the wand inside, then closes it again. “Some of these are bloody well brilliant looking. Which ones are yours?”

Harry decides to ignore the topic of _Malfoy_ and _shagging_ and leans around to look at the box. “That’s one of mine,” he says. “See the symbol there, the one with the stag? Those are mine. Ollivander’s just have the wand instead. There aren’t many of mine, though.”

“Well, it’s nice,” Ron says. “The sort of thing someone would like to be waving around in class. Seems like you’re good with a wand, Harry.”

With the way Ron’s smirking, Harry’s not sure if he’s talking about wands or _wands_ , so he doesn’t dignify it with a response. He’s tempted to protest that he likes girls (and he does), but he knows that arguing with Ron only makes him dig his heels in harder, so he lets it go instead. “Let’s just get this lot unpacked and call it a day. There’s another half pallet back in Diagon Alley, but I’ll get that tomorrow when I need a break.” 

Ron takes the hint and they’re able to work in silence. Harry likes watching the little bins fill up on the walls, wands ready and waiting as if they’re just looking for the right person to come in. Harry wonders how Ollivander decided which ones to keep in Diagon and which to send here, but he decides that maybe it’s fate. Maybe a person walks into the right shop, for the right wand, and it finds them just like that. Maybe it’s just a little bit magic.

#

Malfoy is waiting outside the shop when Harry unlocks the front door in the morning. Harry blinks at him several times before he yanks the door wide, motions for Malfoy to come in. “When I said early, I didn’t mean before I opened, Malfoy.”

“I have a business to run as well.” Malfoy gestures at the other shop and Harry spots a little clock on the door, the hands ticking down. “I’ve thirty minutes before I will have to be back. Hopefully that will be enough time.”

“For an initial assessment, sure.” Harry puts a sign of his own out, simply hand drawn that says _not quite open yet, come back soon_ , and locks the front door again. He wonders just how much business Malfoy is getting already; he’s not sure he’s seen a single customer on the street yet. “We’ll have to see how long it will take to fix. You’ve got the wand with you, right? I’m assuming this is the one that—”

Malfoy doesn’t even let him finish the sentence. “That you returned to me after the trial, yes.” He draws the wand from his sleeve and holds it out to Harry. “It hasn’t been the same ever since.”

Harry takes the slender length of hawthorn, feeling it warm against his skin. “What’s been wrong with it? You were always a good spellcaster. I can’t imagine you’ve been going without for five years now.” When there’s no response, he looks up at Malfoy. “Have you?”

“It’s limp.” The words are tight, as if dragged from Malfoy’s lips. “It doesn’t respond properly, and it wavers when I use it, unable to maintain any proper sort of tension. I can’t possibly describe the proper patterns with it, and it has no energy. Spells fall flat.”

“It sounds as if you’re having performance problems,” Harry says dryly. “Come on into the back room. I’d like to see you use it, then I can take a look at it.”

“If this is some kind of proposition…”

Harry stops mid-stride, just barely managing to get moving again before Malfoy crashes into him. “It’s not a _proposition_. That’s not what I—you’re not my type, Malfoy.” He has no idea how they got from _wands_ to _proposition_ (no, that’s a lie, he’s pretty sure he knows exactly how they got there). “All I want is for you to show me your technique. With a wand. With _this_ wand.” Harry turns as soon as he’s in the back room, shoving the wand back into Malfoy’s hand. “Cast something simple.”

Malfoy grabs a glass from a nearby cabinet and sets it in the middle of Harry’s worktable. “ _Augamenti_.” His form is perfect, pronunciation correct, but the wand—it just doesn’t look _right_. Water dribbles from the tip, just barely filling the glass halfway, and Malfoy sneers at it. “Do you see?”

“Performance problems.” Harry takes the wand in his own hand, draws his fingers down the length of it, frowning. Malfoy’s right, there’s something wrong here. Hawthorn is usually somewhat pliant, but this is downright wobbly. It’s as if the core has gone limp and isn’t responding to the touch of a wizard at all. He raises the wand, tries the spell himself, and a single drop falls from the tip onto the table.

Malfoy snorts. “I see I’m not the only one with difficulties performing.”

“Hush.” Harry sets the wand in the middle of the table, beckons for Malfoy to join him, waiting until they stand shoulder to shoulder. Harry draws his own wand and casts a few simple spells to let him see the energy around the wand and Malfoy, frowning when he can’t quite tell what’s wrong with it.

“Problem?” Malfoy arches one eyebrow, crosses his arms.

“Of course not. I can fix it. And if I can’t, we’ve got plenty for sale.” But Harry knows he can fix this, and he refuses to fail on his first commission in this new shop. “Just put your hand on it, here.” He reaches for Malfoy’s fingers, places them where he wants on the wand and casts again, drawing the tip of his wand around Malfoy’s fingers and the hawthorn wand. There’s a low thrum in the air, and Harry knows he’s getting closer when the hawthorn wand quivers on the table.

“It’s still your wand,” he announces quietly. “That’s good news. And I don’t think anything’s physically broken; the unicorn hair is still there, which is an interesting statement on your purity.” Harry has a rueful smile to counter Malfoy’s glare. “You have to admit, that it was a possibility, that the war took a toll on your soul that the unicorn hair couldn’t remain loyal to. But it didn’t. Despite the war, despite the things you were forced to do, your own core remains pure. So the wand is still yours. But…”

“But?” Malfoy lifts the wand from the table, raises it as if to shoot sparks, and a tiny flare rises and falls almost before Harry can spot it.

“But it’s no longer resonating with you. It’s out of tune, or to use an analogy you might see better, the magic woven around you and it aren’t even in the same cloth anymore.”

“That makes no sense.”

It actually makes perfect sense, even better than the concept of resonance. Harry can feel it, the gentle weave of magical energy that imbues the air around a wizard and his wand. They are attached, pulled to each other by unseen strings, but the strings between Malfoy and his wand are frayed. “It doesn’t need to make sense,” he says. “What it needs is to be repaired.”

“Can you do that?” Malfoy arches his eyebrows, waits expectantly, and Harry feels himself wilt slightly inside.

In theory? Yes. He can repair any wand, and particularly _this_ wand because he’s familiar with it. But with Malfoy glaring at him, waiting, expecting him to make a mess of it, suddenly Harry isn’t so sure. He’s tempted to tell Malfoy to go on back to his shop, wait there while Harry works on it, but that wouldn’t help. Harry needs Malfoy right here with the wand in order to put the two of them back in working order.

So he smiles broadly. “Yes, Malfoy, I promise that your wand will no longer be limp when I’m done with it.”

Malfoy gestures in a clear _go on_ , and Harry picks up the wand again, closes his eyes as he gets a feel for the wand in his hand. It shivers against his palm, wavers. It’s like it’s right there, just out of touch, and he frowns because he’s never seen anything quite like it. If anything, he’d expect it to respond to himself rather than Malfoy, since he won it from Malfoy, then gave it back. But it’s not responding to either of them.

With a small snort, he switches it from his right hand to his left, and holds it by the tip. He jabs the end towards Malfoy, waits for him to grip it as well, then considers it again. A few more diagnostic spells, and Harry can see it more clearly.

The wand is confused, loyal to two wizards without being _fully_ loyal to either one. All Harry needs to do is shift that loyalty back to Malfoy, but he’s fairly certain that at this point, a simple disarming isn’t going to do the trick. Still, there are spells for that, simple cleansing spells, and some trickier ones that undo layers of metaphysical _dirt_ that sometimes wrap around old wands. Harry’s done his fair share of cleansing heritage wands for old families—it’s one of Ollivander’s favourite tasks to give him—and he thinks that might be what’s needed now. Cleanse away all the uncertainty, and the wand will choose its owner properly again.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the wand rather than Malfoy. It’s easy to lose himself in the spells, stripping away the lingering effects left by spells cast during the war. It feels lighter as they lift, the traces disappearing into smoke and ether around them. Malfoy coughs, but Harry keeps going, determined to reach the point where the wand is as clean as the day Malfoy first received it from Ollivander.

There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow, dripping into his eyes, clouding his vision. He can’t stop now, not with the wand vibrating between their hands, power gathering, shooting off with tiny sparks. Harry lays down a quick charm to contain the power, channel it through the core, feels the moment that it cools and calms. _Almost done_.

The last charm is the trickiest, the one that gives the wand autonomy, the one that very few know, and even fewer can master. It is the mark of a wandmaker, the way that they change wood and core into something special, an extension of the wizard it chooses. It is the moment that hawthorn becomes wand.

Harry draws the tip of his wand along the length of the hawthorn, feeling the shiver in response. He pauses at the end, waiting for the charm to sink into the wood, waiting for just the right moment to let it go…

He’s not at all expecting the _kaboom_.

Harry’s thrown across the room, landing in a tangled heap with Malfoy on top of him, the wand clattering to the floor. The room echoes with the memory of the sound, and his ears are ringing, body aching.

“Does that always happen?” Malfoy asks dryly. There’s a hand square in the middle of Harry’s solar plexus as Malfoy pushes himself to standing, brushes dust from his robes.

“Never.” Harry picks up the wand, relieved to see that it seems no worse for the wear. While explosions are hardly the norm, they are unusual enough that Harry feels comfortable stretching the truth a tiny bit. He doubts it had anything to do with the wand; more likely it was years of repressed energy finding a sudden release. “Here you go; why don’t you try it out?”

Malfoy gives him a dubious look, and Harry supposes he can’t blame him after the explosion, but he still reaches out, taps his wand against the rim of the glass. He barely completes the motion, merely whispers the word, and water flows into the glass, filling it perfectly to the brim.

Harry grins. “I told you I could fix it.”

Malfoy raises the wand, shoots sparks before he nods thoughtfully. “Indeed you have. And how much will that cost me?”

“Nothing.” At Malfoy’s shocked look, Harry raises his hands. “I’d rather have good relationships with my neighbours, Malfoy. It’s a gift. It’s likely my fault your wand went limp in the first place; it’s only right that I’m the one to fix it. Besides, I’ll be trusting you to send folks to the shop, and if you happen to think of it, send them across the way to Myriad as well. And we’ll both send everyone along to Strings of Fate. We have to help each other out here, right?”

He doesn’t know how to read the look Malfoy gives him, but after a moment, he nods. “Of course. Should you need anything related to yarn or knitting, I shall expect you to come by.”

It’s not a declaration of friendship. It’s not even a proper _thank you_. But it might be a favour that Harry could use to get a gift for one of his friends, and with luck, it’ll mean having at least a decent working relationship with his neighbour. 

He follows Malfoy into the main room and busies himself with organising things that no longer need organising until Malfoy is gone. There’s really nothing that needs to be done in the shop, but Harry’s fingers are still tingling, and he’s loathe to think about touching another wand right now. For now he’ll just read through the paper, maybe start a book while waiting to see if anyone comes in, and bask in the pleasure of being the one to fix Malfoy’s wand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Everything’s perfect until just before lunch.

Draco has yet to see a customer, and he’s just bored enough that perhaps he _will_ learn to knit. He’s perusing the patterns, trying to decide whether he wants socks made of _Kitten Toes_ , or a bulky weight quick-knit jumper (although the name of the yarn is off-putting, and why can’t it be _Thick for_ His _Pleasure_ , in this instance? Does Millicent think that men don’t… knit?). He picks up two sets of needles, comparing the feel of two different types of wood, and the door jangles open.

“Draco, if you’d like to join us, you’ll have to hurry,” Luna calls into the shop. “Harry’s halfway down—”

He misses whatever else she says when pain lances across his gut, twists tightly and drops him to his knees. He cries out, one hand at his stomach and the other to his head, eyes closing against the bright flashes singing around him, wrapping him up. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can barely see past the web that binds him, pulls him, strangles him.

“Help…” He tries to call out to Luna, but she’s outside again, one hand still holding the door open as she almost pulls away from it.

“Harry!” she yells out, and there’s another twist in Draco’s gut.

“Bring him back here!” Luna yanks the door wide.

The pain slowly eases and breath slips back in. Draco gasps, holds his breath against the ache, then lets it out slowly, trying to get his feet under him. When he looks up, Luna is staring down at him, eyes wide and curious, while Lavender Brown stands next to her with Harry Potter thrown over her shoulder.

Draco would say something, but he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Do you have a back room?” Lavender asks, and when Draco motions weakly to the door, she heads directly there. He can hear the thump of something—probably Potter—being dropped, and he wonders if she put him on the couch. Draco would actually like to sit on the couch right about now, or perhaps have a nice lie down for an hour or three. He could wrap up in a blanket but strangely enough, for all that this is a yarn shop, there are no handily home-knit afghans about.

“Are you going to get up?” Luna holds out both of her hands. “It’s strange that you’d both scream like that at the same time. I thought we were all friends now and going to lunch. I didn’t think you’d be horrified by it.”

“You stopped by to invite me to lunch?” Draco’s only just beginning to catch on to the starting thread of the conversation. He’s not even sure what to do with the idea that Luna Lovegood thinks they might be _friends_.

“It only seemed polite.” Luna crouches down in front of him, hands still held out. She raises her eyebrows and waits until he puts his hands in hers and lets her carefully draw him to his feet. “I’d rather assumed Harry would have already asked, but apparently not. Sometimes he needs a little nudge.”

“He’s already done me one favour today.” Draco wipes his hands on his robes, not because he touched Luna, but because his fingers are tingling, itching like something’s missing, or like he’s just touched a flame. “Is there a reason why he’s unconscious in my back room?”

“He’s waking up,” Lavender calls out.

Potter is sitting up by the time Draco makes it into the backroom, and Draco is exhausted enough that he sinks onto the couch next to him, not caring how close it places them. Potter leans over, head in his hands, muttering under his breath, while Lavender kneels in front of him, her expression worried as she watches him.

“Perhaps you should put a sofa in your own back room, rather than making excuses to nap on mine,” Draco says dryly. He turns just enough to be able to look at Potter directly—it’s only polite—his knee brushing against Potter’s as he does so.

A shock travels directly from kneecap to groin, not a typical reaction at all, and Draco jerks back, glaring. “What the bloody _hell_ , Potter?”

“It’s not _me_.” Potter shudders visibly, head dropping for a moment before he looks back up. “I was going out to lunch and then I just—it felt like someone shoved a knife in my gut. And just now, _you_ shocked _me_.”

It’s a familiar description. In fact, if someone were to ask—not that anyone is—what sent Draco to the ground, it would be a very similar sensation. He can still feel the tingling in his fingers, a jangling sensation that’s near to driving him mad. He flexes his fingers, curls them back together. “I assure you, Potter, I haven’t cursed you. I was minding my own business when Lovegood…” He pauses when he hears a small noise, glances at her and she blinks wide eyes and he remembers her urging to use her given name. “When _Luna_ saw fit to barge in under some mistaken impression that you’d included me in your lunch plans.”

“Why would I…” Potter’s voice trails off when Luna does nothing but smile calmly. “Never mind. I’m fine now, so we’ll just be going. I’m hungry.” He shoves himself to his feet, wavering only a moment and holding out a hand to push away the offer of help from Lavender. “Let’s go.”

“You’re still welcome to come, if you’d like,” Luna offers, but Draco assures her that he’s fine.

He’s _not_ fine, though. He has a horrible feeling that he’s very far from fine, and when Potter makes it about halfway down the street and drops to his knees with a scream that echoes in Draco’s ears and in his throat, as he falls to his own floor, he’s absolutely _certain_ that neither of them is fine.

He just doesn’t know _why_.

#

Lavender uses her silver fellytone device to contact the twins; Draco can hear their voices coming out of the little box clearly, can even see their faces, noses wrinkled in confusion. It’s a strange sort of magic, but not as worrisome as the fact that he and Potter are sitting side by side, and Draco needs to confess that when Potter feels that horrid pain, so does he.

While they wait for the Patil twins to bring back lunch, Luna directs them through a series of experiments, each more awkward or painful than the last, while Lavender watches over them to deny those she deems unnecessary. Draco never thought he’d be thankful to Lavender Brown, and yet, he is by the end of the ordeal.

“Ten feet,” Potter mutters at the end of it all, a takeaway container of curry balanced on his knees. “Ten bloody feet, and thirty if we don’t mind the itching. And at fifty, it just fucking well hurts. What the bloody hell did you do to me, Malfoy?”

“Me? We were getting on fine this morning, don’t you recall?” Draco sneers. He has some kind of a sandwich—he hasn’t really looked at it, simply took what was handed to him—in his hands, but he has yet to take a single bite. “Until this morning, I wouldn’t have been capable of casting anything complicated, so do _not_ look to me with those suspicious eyes. I am _not_ up to something. All I am trying to do is live my life and sell yarn.”

He dimly registers the Floo springing to life, but chooses to ignore it. He doesn’t have time for this right now. He doesn’t _want_ visitors. He… fuck it. He smiles slightly. “Hello, Millicent. Haven’t popped yet, then?”

Millicent brushes the soot from her round belly, hitches the bag she carries onto her shoulder. “I’ve still got another six weeks to go, you know that, Draco. Marc’s minding the shop for a bit, and I just thought that since you don’t knit, I’d come by to sit in one of your comfortable chairs and do so, in case you need someone to look like they know what they’re doing. Is there a _reason_ you have the Saviour of the Wizarding World in our back room, and are you holding hands?” Her gaze narrows, and Draco yanks his hand back from where his fingers have somehow traitorously entwined with Potter’s when Draco wasn’t paying close attention.

“No.” He hesitates, remembers her questions. “Yes, there is a reason. We’ve been horribly cursed. Someone obviously wants both Ollivanders and Strings of Fate to fail, so they’ve entwined us unmercifully.”

Millicent snickers. “Someone has a sense of humour.”

“Didn’t you say that Harry did a favour for you earlier?” Luna muses. “Harry, you didn’t bond yourself to Draco accidentally, did you?”

“No!” Potter says firmly, but when he looks at Draco, he doesn’t look certain.

“Potter…”

“Explosions aren’t normal,” Potter finally says. “It’s _possible_ something may have happened when I was working with your wand this morning.”

“You let _Potter_ handle your _wand_?” Millicent’s smirk is accompanied by a quick laugh. “Oh, that’s just priceless, Draco. Tell me, is he good at it? I’d think explosions would normally be a—”

“Potter is working for Ollivanders.” Draco cuts her off before she can get too far down that road of innuendo. He can’t tell if the flush on Potter’s skin is embarrassment or anger. “He helped me with the difficulties I’ve been having with my wand.”

Luna’s eyebrows are high and her eyes wide and round. Lavender turns away but Draco can hear the giggle as she whispers something to one of the twins. The last twin is still eating as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. And Millicent—Draco can almost read her mind, can see the devious twists she’s taking, and he suspects that this story will have traveled through Greg, Marcus, and might well reach all the way to Italy by an hour from now.

There are too many people here for Draco to sort this properly right this moment. He crosses his arms and looks to Potter, who is absolutely no help, his lips pressed together and cheeks warmed with red. Draco huffs a sigh. “Obviously we were fine when you were in your shop,” he decides. “Go back there, and finish out your afternoon. Everyone can go back where they belong, and Potter, you and I will meet after work and discuss our options then. Agreed?”

Potter sounds slightly strangled as he says, “Agreed.”

“Saviour!” Millicent points into the main shop, towards the chair she had placed at the front. “Join me. Do you think you want to wear a _Sweet Caress_ jumper? It’s a new line, and we could use the advertisement.”

“I… no…” Potter says slowly. “I really ought to be getting back to my shop.”

“Could I take a look at it?” Luna follows Millicent and perches on the arm of the chair once Millicent has herself settled. If Draco were to blink, he might miss the way Luna gestures behind herself for Potter to head to the door quickly. By the time Luna is taking soft strands and wrapping them around her fingers, making little noises when they squeeze, Potter and the Patil twins are gone. Only Lavender lingers, standing right behind Draco as he gathers up the remainder of the food and spells it to stay fresh.

“Don’t hurt him,” Lavender murmurs, and Draco wonders abruptly if the rumours are true and Lavender is more wolf than human these days, despite not transforming. 

“I’d be far more worried about him hurting me,” Draco replies carefully, not at all sure why he’s being warned in this case. “After all, we have a history.”

“He would never.” Lavender squeezes his shoulder—an unwelcome familiarity—and then heads out, calling for Luna to join her as they go back across the street.

_He would never_.

Draco is more than aware that Potter not only has the capacity to hurt him, he _has_. They have a _history_ , and he has to wonder exactly what the future is going to bring, and how to fix this mad tangled mess they’ve found themselves within.

#

That afternoon, Draco finally learns to knit. Or rather, he learns how to get yarn onto a needle with awkwardly spaced loops, and how to attempt to get that off one needle and onto the next, by adding to the loops. It isn’t easy, nor are they neatly spaced stitches like the ones that fly from Millicent’s fingertips. Draco is absolutely certain that tangling yarn together in a pattern should be far simpler than it actually is, but the technique eludes him.

“Everyone starts out with projects that look like a five year old made them,” Millicent assures him with a heavy clap on his shoulder. “You’ve done two rows, consider yourself accomplished, and you can keep working on the scarf tomorrow when you’ve got some quiet time.”

A scarf. Apparently he is making a scarf, which had not necessarily been his original intent. However, Millicent had chosen the yarn ( _Kiss My Toes_ ) and the needles and got him started, so Draco had no choice in the pattern. At least it seems simple enough, although now he’s wondering if he has to worry about the yarn giving him love marks on his throat if he actually wears the brightly coloured thing. Perhaps it ought to be a gift when he’s done.

He watches Millicent move heavily into the back room, her bag over her shoulder, needles and yarn peeking out. “Marcus might be bringing by some of the _Sweet Caress_ , if he has enough of it to sell. He’s been working on the colourways, trying to get the dyes just right. Some things just can’t be done by magic.”

“I know.” Draco keeps his tone serious, although he’s heard it all before. Marcus and Millicent grew up in sheep country; this is in their blood. For Draco it’s just a job, and he doesn’t need to know the details, yet he’s a good enough friend to let them go on when they feel like talking. “It sounded as if Lovegood might be interested.”

“She’s not as looney as I thought,” Millicent muses. “See if you can sell her some yarn, get her knitting with our product. Maybe she’ll put a shawl into that shop of hers. Something with bells on it. Or radishes.”

“I think I’ve heard she’s into plums these days,” Draco says dryly. He’s heard no such thing, but he sees the wheels turning in Millicent’s mind at his words and it will help keep her distracted from the discomfort the baby brings. “Go. Put your feet up before Greg blames me for your exhaustion. I will be fine here on my own, Millicent. I do know how to run a shop.”

“Are you sure you’re set for Saturday’s official opening?” She hesitates at the fireplace, Floo powder in her hand.

“I’m _positive_.” The door jangles at the front of the shop, and Draco gestures in that direction. “Speaking of customers, it sounds as if I have one now.” There’s a faint itch in his skull, tension in his fingertips. He wants to get out front _right now_ , and he gives her a nudge. “Go on.”

She disappears into the Floo just as Draco hears Potter call his name.

It doesn’t ease the itch under his skin, but at least it explains it.

“Potter.” Draco sets the scarf—such as it is—on the counter on his way by. Potter stands in front of a display of yarn intended for infant blankets and sleepers. _Cuddle Me, Swaddle Me_ is one of their most popular blends; apparently everyone enjoys knitting for infants, _just in case_ someone happens to suddenly produce one unexpectedly. Potter is holding a skein in his hand, drawing the yarn between his fingertips, idly looking at it.

He drops it when Draco says his name, picking it up off the floor to add it back to the display, a butter yellow among pinks, blues, and greens. “I closed up,” Potter says, waving in the direction of Ollivanders. “I was fine most of the day, then I just started…” He gestures with his hand, somewhere around his mid-section, and Draco swears he can feel the tug of it. “It’s better now that I’m here.” Potter doesn’t look happy with the admission.

“I did not do this to you,” Draco reminds him, lips pursed because he _knows_ Potter always blames him.

If anything, Potter looks less pleased, mouth turning down, body tense. “It was an accident,” he says, which isn’t an admission of guilt on either of their parts, but at least Potter isn’t blaming him entirely. “The question is, what do we do now?”

“We go home, we have dinner, and we try to determine what our next steps might be.” While knitting might have taken most of Draco’s concentration throughout the afternoon, he had had plenty of time to think things through. “You are living with Granger and Weasley, yes? So we should go to my flat. I have a spare bedroom you can use until we get this sorted.”

Potter stands there, dead still, his hand still resting atop a pale pink fluff of yarn, mouth slightly open and body stiff.

“Is there a problem with my suggestion?” Draco asks, one eyebrow arching. He didn’t think the suggestion was unreasonable given the circumstances.

“I’m not going to live with you until we get ourselves unentwined!” Potter blurts. “Malfoy, we aren’t _friends_ , no matter what Luna thinks. Civil, yes, and maybe we can _be_ friends since we’re going to be working next door to each other, but we aren’t the sort of people who can _live together_.”

“Do you have another suggestion?” Draco paces closer to Potter, feeling that pull in his gut the closer he gets, as if he needs to step in tight, make contact after an afternoon with the threads stretched thin between them. “Because if you go to yours, and I go to mine, I suspect we’ll be writhing on the floor in agony within moments of our separation. And being as you already have two roommates, is there truly space for one more in your home? My place is the best, simplest solution. I have the space for a guest, we’ll be in close proximity, and we can Floo back here in the morning for work.”

“We could go someplace neutral. Like Spinner’s End.”

Draco halts, mere inches from Potter, his hand raised as if to touch him and stalled mid-air at the sound of his dead godfather’s home. “That would hardly be neutral.” He tries to keep the venom from his voice; he is _not_ discussing Severus Snape with Potter. “In fact, I doubt you can name a place in the Wizarding world, save perhaps a shop on Diagon Alley, where we would be in neutral territory. Everywhere we could go would be polarized in some manner, generally in your favour.”

“Except your home.” Potter’s expression is drawn and tight, his fingers clenching until the ball of yarn twists against his palm.

Draco reaches out to untangle it, gently setting the ball down as his other hand curls around Potter’s, holds him carefully. Something in his chest eases, makes it easier to draw breath, and he sees Potter’s chest rise and fall in echo of his own. “As long as we have this between us, we are under an impossible stress,” Draco says quietly. “At least in my flat we will be comfortable, and have access to good wine and privacy.”

“I’m more of a pint sort of bloke,” Potter says, his voice just as low.

“I can accommodate that as well. Greg prefers a good lager to wine, as does Marcus. Millicent, on the other hand, insists that my cabinet be stocked with good single malt, when she’s not pregnant.” Draco raises one eyebrow, trying not to think about the fact that he still holds Potter’s hand there between them, a single point of warmth joining them. “I do not plan to molest you, Potter. I am offering you your own space to sleep, and I have access to one of the finest libraries the Wizarding world has to offer, simply by requesting references from the Manor. You cannot deny that we need to fix this in order to go our separate ways.”

Potter remains still, and Draco squeezes his fingers, reminding him that they are linked. When Potter goes to pull away, Draco tugs, taking a step towards the back room and bringing Potter with him. “We are going to my place, and there will be no further arguments,” he says firmly, and somewhat shockingly, Potter allows himself to be brought along and dragged through the Floo.

They stand in the middle of Draco’s living room and he can’t help but think that he’s not sure what the more startling part of the day is: having his magic truly returned after five years, or accidentally bonding to Potter and bringing him home.

Neither was what he expected when he set out for the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Harry isn’t entirely comfortable being in Malfoy’s space. But Malfoy seems to be taking it in stride, showing Harry the small spare room, and making certain the bed is made with fresh linens, and that Harry will have clean clothes for the morning. And dinner… Malfoy is cooking dinner, apparently delighting in the return of his magic to make it simpler as he sets the vegetables to chopping for a salad.

“I didn’t imagine you cooking.” Harry’s fingers itch to help, but he’s already offered twice and both times Malfoy had pointed with the knife in his hand, telling Harry to sit on the sofa and wait like a polite guest. It bothers him to be ordered around, and at the same time, there is something odd and freeing about not having to be in charge of his life at the moment. No one cooks for him. In his own flat, either he cooks, or Hermione burns something and Harry escapes before she asks him to try it, or Ron brings home takeaway in order to avoid having to cook.

“I have to eat somehow.” Malfoy slices neatly through a long length of pork, tossing thin slices into a bowl where he’s already mixed a marinade. “Given the options, I chose to learn to make my own meals. Did you think I’d have an armada of house elves, after all the work your friend has done trying to free them? I can’t afford to pay one wages. My mother’s elf checks in periodically, brings the occasional sweet from home, but other than that, I support myself, Potter. Thus, I cook.” He finishes the pork and stirs it around, setting it aside as he puts rice in a pot and sets it to boil while the magically chopped vegetables march happily on their own into a sauté pan.

“I need to send an owl.” It’s a complete non-sequitur; it’s not as if Harry’s thinking about writing to Hermione and Ron to tell them that Malfoy is _cooking_. “I ought to tell someone where I am. I mean, I think Luna probably knows. Suspects. She’s like that—she figures things out. But Hermione and Ron might worry if I don’t come home.” He can’t seem to stop the words, nor does he stand up from the sofa where Malfoy told him to sit, waiting for further instruction.

Malfoy points to a door down the hall. “You’ll find Elliot in there. He likes a treat before he goes out, otherwise he might delay in delivering your missive. Don’t be concerned about his size; he can carry far more than he looks as if he might.”

The owl is exactly where Malfoy directs, in a small cubby of a room that is perfectly sized for one tiny owl and a writing desk with parchment and quill at the ready. Harry finds the tin of treats and places two before the owl, watching as he cocks his head, brown feathers fluffing briefly before he takes one in a claw and lifts it to his beak. It gives Harry time to write a quick note.

_Hermione & Ron,_

_I had a small accident today while fixing Malfoy’s wand, and as it turns out, we are unable to be more than thirty feet from each other without significant pain. He has a spare room and is allowing me to kip for the night while we figure out how to undo this tangled mess._

_Malfoy cooks. Are you as surprised by this as I am?_

_He swears he didn’t cause this. I don’t think he did. There was something when I was working on his wand. It just exploded in my hand. Not actually exploded—the wand’s fine. But the force threw us._

_Everyone keeps making jokes about wands._

_I should be home tomorrow._

_Harry_

He reviews the letter twice, and when Elliot pecks impatiently at his hand, Harry quickly seals it and hands it to the owl, giving the address for delivery. The owl pecks him once more, and Harry isn’t certain what he’s done wrong, but he suspects the owl won’t be back quickly.

By the time he returns to the kitchen, Malfoy is placing food on the table, and gestures for Harry to sit.

“We need to figure this out,” Harry says, tugging out one chair and dropping into it. “It’s not like I can just move in here permanently. We’re not meant to be bound to one another.”

“Magic is a fickle thing.” Malfoy offers a bowl of rice. “Eat, Potter. There’s little point in doing this on an empty stomach.” His lips purse as he sits back, spooning sautéed pork over rice on his own plate. “The question is, how do we unravel it without doing damage to ourselves?”

Harry pauses mid-spoonful, the rice falling from the serving spoon to his plate when he stops. “Damage to us? Do you think it could be wound that deeply into…” He’s not familiar with bonding magic, not sure how to even phrase the question.

Malfoy sets the meat down, nudges it across the table to Harry, and takes up the vegetables. “I’ve been thinking it through. You were working with my wand—you were, at the time, linked to my magic. And you have now somehow bound yourself to me through that same magic, which is a part of me. In doing so, you released my wand, allowed it to work with my own magical core once more, but it obviously isn’t working perfectly. If you unwind this tangle, do I lose my wand once more?”

Something pricks across the back of Harry’s neck; he winces in discomfort. “You can get a new wand.”

“I can’t get new magic, and it’s highly possible that what we have done could endanger that.” Malfoy shrugs. “I’m tempted to say we give it a week, see if whatever happened runs its course. It is quite possible this is only a temporary side effect and will be done after some short amount of time.”

It certainly sounds like a simple solution, except for the part where it leaves Harry living with Malfoy, in his home, relying on his hospitality. “What if I don’t want to live with you?” Harry pokes at the food, finally taking a bite. It’s good. Malfoy’s a _good_ cook, which just isn’t fair somehow.

“I could move in with you and your Weasel and Granger.” Malfoy smiles thinly. “If you don’t have a spare bedroom, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind sharing your bed.”

That sends heat through Harry, almost as if he _likes_ that idea, which he doesn’t. Wouldn’t. _Ever_. His mouth opens, words failing. “No,” he finally manages. “We need to find a solution.”

“You’re not the one in danger,” Malfoy points out darkly. “I am. It’s all well and good to go barging in when you’re risking your own life, but this is _mine_ , Potter, and therefore I have more say in the solution than you do. We give it a week, you stay here, and we read everything we can on bonding magic from the Malfoy library. Feel free to get your friends involved; the more the merrier when it comes to research. But the living arrangements are not negotiable. You will be here.”

He makes it sound so simple, and it’s easier to agree than to fight with him over it. Especially when Harry knows that leaving means he’s going to feel like he’s being torn in two from the pain. “Fine.” He tucks into the food, ignores the small smirk that Malfoy has tilting his lips. He doesn’t want Malfoy to feel like he’s _won_. It’s not a war, it’s just a negotiation. They still have a long way to go before this problem is solved.

#

Elliot returns with no letter for Harry, pecking at his fingers for another treat. Harry considers sending another letter, asking for some kind of a response, but he knows that if they had something to say, Hermione wouldn’t be at all shy about saying it. So he gives the owl the treat and leaves it in its room for the moment, returning to the living room.

It’s strangely domestic. Malfoy gave him a book on basic bonding spells from his own personal library and has been working on carefully planning a letter to his parents to request further volumes from the Malfoy library. Harry can’t think what he’s going to say. He suspects that _dear Mum and Dad, was accidentally bonded to Harry Potter, thought you might want to know, we’re working on dissolving the marriage_ wouldn’t be the best way to put it.

The problem is, Harry isn’t a reader, he’s a _doer_ , and right now, there’s nothing to do. His skin itches with the sense of Malfoy sitting five feet away from him, and his fingers stretch, wanting to reach out and close that distance. He doesn’t know what’s harder—being far away and in pain, or being so close that it feels like they should be touching. He flexes his hand, curls the fingers back around the edge of the book, then repeats the same movement several times.

“Out with it, Potter,” Malfoy snaps, setting the quill down and smoothing out his parchment. “If you have something to say, say it. Do not sit there fidgeting.”

“I need to touch you.” The words are painful, hard to say and as soon as they’re out, Harry wishes he could swallow them back. Malfoy’s brow is pinched, his mouth drawn up into a tight bow as if he’s eaten something sour.

“I see.” Malfoy reaches for his wand, touches it to the parchment and murmurs a spell to dry the ink. Harry feels the casting wash over his skin with warmth, tingling to settle beneath the surface. He’s just about to comment on it, but Malfoy is _moving_ , leaving the letter on the table while he comes to settle in on the sofa next to Harry, his thigh pressed close enough that it makes Harry sigh with the way tension leaves his body at the touch. It isn’t _enough_ , but at the same time, it’s enough for now. It satisfies the need thrumming under his skin.

“That works.” His throat his tight, the words slightly strangled.

Malfoy nods, summons a book from the table nearby and opens it to read. “If we are to survive this, Potter,” he says mildly, “then if you find you need something, you must _ask_. It seems the bond is uneven; you feel it more than I. This requires communication.”

“You don’t feel this.” In the places where they touch, Harry feels at ease, comforted almost. Malfoy arches one eyebrow, and Harry inhales, tries to martial the words. “You didn’t feel the itch under your skin. The _need_.”

Malfoy hesitates, and it makes Harry wonder if he’s trying to find words that aren’t a lie but aren’t the truth either. There is a long pause, silence that stretches between them, before Malfoy’s attention returns to his book. “The fact remains, Potter: if you need something, you must tell me. We may be inadvertently bonded, but I do not read minds.”

The fact that Malfoy seems to _care_ is strangely comforting, even if Harry wants to question it, wants to understand _why_ Malfoy even gives a shit. 

Well, there is the whole thing with his magic. But that doesn’t explain why he seems to care about whether this harms _Harry_ along the way.

He leans back, lets his shoulder slot into the space next to Malfoy so that they are touching all along the line from shoulder to knee, arms brushing whenever one of them moves. “Fine,” he says quietly. “If I need something, I’ll tell you.” When Malfoy’s gaze shifts to pin him, Harry shivers, all too aware of the look. “I promise.”

It seems to soothe whatever concerns Malfoy has, and they both return to their reading.

Harry doesn’t understand a word of the book, his mind simply and irritatingly filled with _Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy_.

#

He may have promised, but he can’t tell Malfoy about _this_.

Harry wakes from a dream of Malfoy in his bed, of hot hands sliding over even hotter skin. He wakes with his prick hard, already thrusting into the tight circle of his own hand. He wakes aching with need, craving Malfoy’s touch and knowing that while he can bring himself off, it won’t be anywhere near as good.

But he _can’t_ , he can’t do it, can’t call out to Malfoy and say _I just need you to give me a good wank_.

It’s the bond. Harry _knows_ it’s the bond, the after-effects of whatever magic the wand let loose around them, tugging them tight with strings he can’t even see. But that doesn’t change the way it feels when he closes his eyes, falls back into the images of his dreams.

Malfoy lying next to him, both their bodies slick with sweat. Harry can smell the musk in the air, can feel the heavy weight where Malfoy’s prick lies against his thigh, and he knows that Malfoy is just as affected by this as he is.

Harry doesn’t know _why_ he’s affected. He doesn’t think of men like this, doesn’t imagine them naked, doesn’t ever need to feel a prick rubbing up against his skin as someone tries urgently to reach their own orgasm. He doesn’t want to feel a man’s hand wrapped around his erection, stroking it with firm, tight movement from root to tip.

He doesn’t want _Malfoy_.

But he can’t deny the way his prick aches now, pushing into his own hand at the images in his mind, his hips lifting anxiously from the bed as he fucks his hand, pulling harder, slick from sweat and probably spit, he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t remember it, he just knows that he needs it, whining low in his throat as he begs for something he doesn’t want to call out for.

In his mind’s eye, he can see the smooth, pale expanse of Malfoy’s skin. He’s never seen him fully naked, but it seems so clear in his imagination, so easy to see what it must be like, from the dusting of pale hair across his chest, to the light rose coloured nipples, tight and hard with arousal, to the fine fuzz of slightly darker hair where his prick juts out. Still blond, but closer to ashen gold than silver, his long cock flushed against it.

“I knew you’d be a screamer,” Malfoy whispers, breath hot against Harry’s shoulder, hips jerking next to him as he ruts against his thigh. It’s Malfoy’s hand on his cock, not Harry’s, _Malfoy_ who strokes him, tightens his grip as Harry thrusts up, keening anxiously. “It’s okay,” Malfoy tells him through hot kisses. “Let go. Scream for me.”

It’s a strangled cry, almost pained in the intensity, leaving Harry panting in the aftermath. He’s close, _so fucking close_ , and he just can’t get there, can’t get off. The image of Malfoy in his mind tells him to be loud and he _is_ , words falling from his lips in a steady stream that doesn’t even make sense. They aren’t sentences, only words, like _fuck_ and _Malfoy_ and _please_ shouted in a begging whine, ending in a low moan when he feels something brush against his arse.

He knows it’s only his own finger, but he imagines it as _Malfoy_ teasing at him, touching him with spit-slick fingers, rubbing where he aches for something more. Harry pants, begs _Malfoy, please_ and a fingertip pushes just past the rim. His hips jerk up, body arching as his thighs tighten, reaching for the orgasm that is just out of reach.

“Potter, what in Merlin’s name—” Malfoy’s voice cuts off as the door slams open, banging off the wall. And that’s it, that’s what Harry needed, just the sound of Malfoy, just the _idea_ that he is really here, and his cock jerks in his grip, thick ropes of fluid painting across his chest.

Harry feels wrung out when it’s done, exhausted and limp as he falls back against the bed. Eyes closed, he just tries to breathe, floats in the aftermath of a brilliant orgasm. He doesn’t want to go back over the last half hour, doesn’t want to look too closely at the fantasy that brought him here. He is sticky and sated, breathing slowly coming back to normal.

“Potter.”

Malfoy’s voice is dry and low, and most importantly, it is _there_ , in the room, outside his head.

Harry’s eyes fly open and he rolls over, grabbing the sheet to pull it up over his somehow naked body—he doesn’t even remember stripping, but his clothes are scattered across the floor of the room, and he knows he must have done it in his sleep.

Malfoy stands in the doorway, the door wide open. His skin is damp from the shower, hair plastered against his head, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. Harry can see the tent of his cock beneath it, and when he licks his lips uncertainly, Malfoy’s gaze shifts from Harry to his towel and back again.

Malfoy’s _here_.

“Potter.” Malfoy speaks quietly, his voice rough, fingers white where he grips the edge of his towel. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

So many things spring to mind, so many possible ways to push this off, deny that it’s happening. But it occurs to Harry that this bond, this _thing_ , is out of control. It’s beyond what he can manage, beyond anything he has ever wanted, and he can’t force any of the words past his lips. “I needed it,” he says, and the words sound right and wrong to his ears. “I… this… I just needed…” 

He just needed to get off. He needed to have a quick wank while thinking about Malfoy, _fantasising_ about Malfoy, while _in his flat_ and in a room that fucking _smells_ like him.

Words fail him, and Harry finds himself staring at the floor, wishing it would just open up and swallow him down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It isn’t easy having Potter in his home. Draco is aware of Potter’s presence at every moment, through the evening and into the morning, as he wakes and makes his way to the shower, skin prickling with need. He may have prevaricated, just a small amount. Potter thinks he is unaware of the bond, but that is far from the truth. Draco feels it, he is simply able to resist it, to let it call to him without giving in.

So far.

Draco feels Potter’s cry as much as he hears it, the knife twisting in his gut as the sound shivers over his skin. He tells himself that Potter is _fine_ ; they are in his flat, and it’s not as if he could be injured.

He lets the soap slide over his skin, washes his body and realises that Potter’s not _injured_ , he’s _aroused_.

Draco’s cock stiffens rapidly, long and slender, aching when the water rains down from the shower. He leans his head back, thinks about just making himself finish off right here, when there’s another cry that twists in his gut, tightens around his cock like fingers, and practically yanks him out of the shower.

He needs to be with Potter _now_.

He doesn’t even take the time to dry off, simply twists the water off and holds a towel loosely around his hips as he stalks to the guest room, throws open the door.

Potter doesn’t even seem to notice him, lying on the bed, one hand wrapped around his cock as he frantically wanks, his other hand pressed beneath his balls, the tip of one finger just barely disappearing inside a tight hole.

“Potter, what in Merlin’s name—” Draco stops speaking because the answer is obvious as Potter orgasms, the smell of sex filling the room, the sound of his orgasm twisting around Draco to the point where his prick jerks, and he almost comes right there on the spot without a touch.

He has to control his breathing, has to control the situation somehow. “Potter,” he says slowly. Waiting, watching, gripping the towel so tightly that it hurts his fingers. There’s a moment when he can see that Potter realises that he’s there, that he’s _watching_ , when Potter rolls himself up in the linens and stares, wide-eyed. Draco keeps his smile thin, tries not to show how much the bond has him twisted up and hungry when he asks, “Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

As if it isn’t obvious.

Potter splutters, can’t find the words, but one thing stands out: _need_.

Potter needed him, much like Draco needs an orgasm _right now_. Much like he needs to see Potter on his knees, mouth wrapped around his prick, swallowing him down until Draco can’t hold back any more. Potter needed him… just like he needs Potter. “What did I tell you about need?” he asks, voice rough around the words. Potter’s head jerks up, staring at Draco rather than the floor.

“I wasn’t going to go get you because I needed a wank.” Potter’s voice catches on a breath, his gaze dropping back to Draco’s towel. He could drop it, and he wonders what would happen, if Potter would hide or if he would do exactly what Draco wants.

What Draco _needs_.

He takes two steps forward and Potter doesn’t move, and Draco knows that means he’s on the right path.

“This bond is going to become more difficult to manage before it fades.” Draco speaks quietly, keeps his voice level and even as he keeps moving, walking until he stands next to the bed. He looks down at Potter, takes a long breath that shifts the towel lower on his hips. “I felt you, while I was in the shower. It was… painful.”

It’s only a tiny lie, a small shift of the truth and a shading of the word when he truly means _gut wrenching_ or the sense that something pulled him in here as if he _knew_ Potter needed him. As if the bond wants to be satisfied, no matter how hard Draco tries to resist.

Even if there is a part of him that doesn’t want to resist.

Potter’s gaze is locked on Draco’s hips, on the space where his prick pushes the towel out. Draco lets the towel slip, and Potter never wavers in his stare.

“And if the bond creates a situation where I need help, should I be able to ask that of you?” Draco asks quietly. “If the bond makes me _need_ , would you be able to help?”

Potter’s gaze skates up to fix on Draco’s face, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Like what?”

Draco can’t help the slow smirk. “I think you know what, Potter.” He arches one eyebrow, glances down significantly, and lets the towel fall.

He’s thankful that Potter can’t hear the way his heart hammers in his chest, can’t tell that the flush on his skin is nerves more than arousal. There is not enough air in the room, nothing for Draco to breathe before the moment when Potter reaches out one careful fingertip, runs it alongside the edge of the rounded head of Draco’s prick where it has pushed the foreskin back, standing out proudly.

Draco sucks air in, holds it in his lungs. “Yes,” he whispers.

“I’m—” Potter stops before saying anything and Draco lets his hand fall on his head, draws him closer.

“This will stay between us,” Draco assures him. “It will never leave this flat.” Who would he tell? He’s hardly going to have a civil conversation with Potter’s friends, and his own would think him mad to let Potter get this far under his skin.

As if Potter isn’t already under his skin, hasn’t been there in some manner or another since they were teens.

Potter sits up, lets the sheet fall away from his dark skin. Draco can still see the sticky traces along his abdomen as Potter hunches closer, wraps his fingers carefully around Draco’s prick.

“It’s not glass, Potter,” Draco says dryly. “I hardly think you’re likely to pull hard enough to break it.” He still has his hand on Potter’s head, his fingers tangling lightly in Potter’s unruly hair. It’s all too easy to tug him, nudge him closer until Potter hovers before Draco’s prick, the head so close to his lips.

Potter blinks at Draco from under heavy lashes.

“Do it,” Draco says softly. “Lick it. Taste it. Take my prick in your mouth, Potter. This is what I need from you.” It’s under his skin now, the need swelling within him. More than a touch, more than sitting thigh to thigh on the same sofa, more than fingers stroking him too lightly, just hard enough to drive him mad. He has both hands on Potter’s head now, cradling his skull, thumbs light against the sides of his face. “Suck my cock, Potter.” He lets each word drip, clipped and slow, and he watches as Potter’s eyes drop closed and his mouth opens.

Draco hitches his hips forward, the head of his cock brushing against Potter’s lower lip, and there’s a soft sigh of warm breath against the sensitive skin. Potter’s tongue darts out, licking at the slit, and Draco groans. It would be so easy to push in, to just fuck into him, but he doesn’t want that. 

He wants Potter on his knees. He wants Potter _taking_ him in, he wants Potter _willingly_ swallowing his prick as deep as he can take it. His desire is clear in his mind, fueling his imagination, and it fuels the bond, turns to need inside of him.

“You must be uncomfortable.” The words are slow and soft, and Draco takes a step back, drawing Potter with him. Eyes flicker open, looking up, and Draco takes one hand away to point at the floor. Potter blinks, and Draco arches an eyebrow and points again.

Need coils in his gut when Potter slithers from the bed, falling to his knees, his back against the mattress and hands on Draco’s thighs. He brings one hand up to cup Draco’s balls, and Draco groans, pressing into his mouth.

“Fuck, Potter.”

There’s a low hum around his cock, and he pulls back, presses forward carefully. Potter’s mouth is sloppy wet, his tongue slick against Draco’s skin. Draco doubts he has ever given head before, but he is apparently game to try, hollowing his cheeks to give Draco a tight channel to fuck into, tongue laving along sensitive bits of skin.

It feels good. It feels better than good, the bond humming under his skin, setting Draco on fire with want and need. Potter’s name slips from his lips and Potter responds with a low groan. Draco feels the orgasm rushing up and pulls back as his legs tense, body taut. His fingers stay tangled in Potter’s hair, holding him close as he crests, shooting white strips across Potter’s lips, shoulders, chest.

Something eases in his chest, makes breath rush in and out.

He feels good. _More_ than, _better_ than, he feels absolutely _perfect_ in this moment, as if nothing could come to harm him. His hand in Potter’s hair slides down, cups his chin, and he looks down as Potter looks up. The green of his eyes is a mere slit around the darkness of his pupils, a splash of white still staining his cheek. Draco wipes it off with his thumb, presses it against Potter’s lip and is surprised when Potter sucks it in.

It could almost make his prick stir again, despite how soon it is.

He stands there, unable to move, unable to stop touching Potter for a long moment. When words finally bubble up, it is simply _shower_ , leaving Potter staring at him blankly. “I am going to shower,” Draco elaborates, as if Potter is the one who is dim, not himself for being unable to express his thoughts.

“I thought you already did that.” Potter licks his lips, sits back on his heels, his skin flushed as he looks at the towel lying puddled on the floor rather than looking at Draco. The space between them is awkward in the aftermath, and Draco has no words to bridge from then to now.

“I did, and now I need to again.” Draco refuses to let Potter rattle him, simply bends to collect the towel and wrap it back around his waist. He can find solace in the simplicity of routine, establish boundaries as if the bond hasn’t drawn them into something that neither knows what to do with. “I shall ensure that there are towels for your use in the bathroom, and you may shower when you hear I am done. The hot water is plentiful; there is no need to wait, and we do need to be at our shops soon. Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

Potter blinks, pupils still thick and blown. “Tea?” It lilts up as if it is a question, and Draco doesn’t try to pursue the issue. It’s of little matter anyway; tea will be simpler this late in the morning.

“Fine.” He turns to leave, pausing at the door without looking back. He can hear the rustle of Potter moving, can imagine the way he stands in the room, stark naked and covered in the remains of their orgasms. “Remember, Potter,” he says. “If you need something from me—if the _bond_ needs something—you will tell me. No matter what, no matter when. Do you understand?”

“Understood.” Potter’s voice is firm, as if awareness has returned and he regains some sense of himself. Draco doesn’t stay to see if it makes a difference in how they react to each other; he escapes to the shower to cleanse himself for the day and try to regain his own control.

He can still feel Potter nearby, is still aware of how he has already made a place for himself in the flat, seamlessly fitting into the empty spaces. It feels natural, and Draco finds that terrifying. Living together until the bond dissolves may be the best solution, and it may be Draco’s idea, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for what it might entail.

#

They take the Floo into Draco’s shop, and Potter leaves quickly to head to Ollivanders. They’re running late, so Draco sets the sign to open and unlocks the door before he checks the displays and realises that there is very little that he needs to do.

He finds the scarf where he left it, just a few rows complete and awkwardly stitched, one needle with a cap on it to hold the stitches, the other stabbed into the ball of yarn. He gathers it all up and moves to the chair at the front of the shop, sits back and tries to remember what Millicent showed him just the day before. The ball falls into his lap as he carefully pokes the empty needle through the first stitch, loops the yarn, then slides it off to make a fresh loop on the new needle. He manages to find a rhythm after a few stitches, and the newest row appears faster than the first few did, even if the stitches are still uneven and loose.

His brow draws together in a frown and he narrows his gaze, slowing down again to cast each stitch carefully. He tugs the yarn tight without knotting it, discovers how easy it is to make it _too_ tight, and he tries to find the right amount of tension for the yarn to slip through his fingers. It takes him several more rows to figure it out, before he knits a row that he deems perfect.

He sits back and looks at it, the stitches so different all along the way before they find their way to uniformity. It’s strange how simple yarn can bind together, easing at times, too tight to breathe at others, before it finds the most comfortable path.

It’s a binding of sorts, made with two needles instead of wands, creating a warm _something_ out of simple yarn. He rubs his fingers over the soft fabric, lips pursing when he swears it rubs back.

“This is Strings of Fate.” The bell jangles as the front door flies open, catching just before it bangs against the wall. Luna has one hand out, gesturing to the interior of the shop as she ushers in two elderly looking women. They are eclectic in appearance—one with purple hair and earrings that seem to be bright pink radishes, her violet eyes framed in green-rimmed glasses that perch low on her nose, and the other with dull grey hair and a chartreuse scarf around it, narrow eyes set into pinched features with high cheekbones, and bright ruby-red lips. Both are dressed in traditional robes of dark grey; likely something from Gladrags. Luna lets them pass by, and stops at the door. “They were looking for hand-knit jumpers,” she tells Draco. “I thought it might be far more fun to show them how to make their own.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to remind her that he doesn’t _knit_ and he certainly doesn’t _teach_ , but the door is already closing as she disappears. He opens his mouth, but still can’t get the words out when she pokes her nose back in briefly.

“Your scarf is lovely, Draco,” she says, smile wide and bright and oddly fond. “You should bring it by when you finish it. Perhaps you ought to make things for us to sell at Myriad. We could set up a partnership. I’ll speak to Padma about it for you; she’s our business manager.”

There is no chance to respond as the door slams smartly, the bell jingling in the aftermath of Luna’s appearance. The two women stand there, waiting patiently, while Draco still sits, yarn tangled around his hands. He pastes on a polite smile, honed by years of practice in Diagon Alley, and sets aside the yarn and needles which threaten to tangle his hands. “It’s absolutely lovely to meet you.” He rises, gestures towards the back of the store where there is a stock of patterns and a small showcase of finished projects, as provided by Millicent. “Did you get the earrings and scarf at Myriad? Absolutely lovely.” He lies through his teeth—they are unique, yes, but they are not exactly _lovely_. “Let’s see if we can help you find something equally unique for your taste here as well.”

It takes an hour before he is able to convince them that no, the samples are not for sale, and no, he will not knit to commission. Neither of them seems fussed by the uneven stitches in his scarf, Faith (the purple-haired one) going as far as to tell him that it only makes it more properly homemade, to see the imperfections that lie in any handmade weave. Myrtle (of the chartreuse scarf) seems amused, pawing through patterns upon patterns as Faith tries again to request a hand-knit jumper, and Draco once again refuses.

In the end they find patterns for chunky-knit jumpers, and he finds himself selling several skeins of _Thick For Her Pleasure_ in a varied riot of colours, along with two fresh sets of _Three Sizes Bigger, Best Wand Ever_ knitting needles. The women pause on their way out, petting the _Kiss My Toes_ display, when the bell rings and Potter barges in.

“I need—” Potter goes absolutely still when he sees the two women standing there, his green eyes wide as saucers.

“Perhaps you should step into the back room,” Draco says mildly. “And we can speak when I am done with my customers.”

Faith glances between Draco and Potter, shakes her head. “Goodness, don’t let us stand between you and your boyfriend. It’s obvious he’s in a bit of a rush.” She pats Potter’s arm and he stares at her, still frozen, as if someone has petrified him in place. “Don’t worry, dear, we’re on our way out. We’ll leave you be.”

“He’s not my—I just—my shop’s next door,” Potter manages to say. “And lunch, Malfoy. I need lunch.”

Myrtle leans in to whisper something in Faith’s ear, and they both murmur for a moment, and when they giggle, it is decidedly girlish. “Of course you do,” Myrtle assures him. “I remember what it was like to be young. And hungry.” Another giggle rises, and Draco fights an unexpected flush that he feels warming behind his ears. “I think we’d best leave before we embarrass them, Faith.” She shakes her head. “Young folks think they invented love, don’t they?”

They’re already out the door when Draco hears Faith reply, “Don’t you think the dark-haired one looked a bit like Harry Potter?”

There’s a soft sound of a smack, and Myrtle’s laughter. “Next thing you’ll be saying is the other is the Weasley boy. Get the stars out of your eyes, Faith. What would the Saviour of the Wizarding World be doing working in Hogsmeade?”

“What would he indeed?” Draco says dryly. He puts the receipts in the drawer, taps it with his wand to lock it, relieved at how it closes on the first try, rather than taking six or seven as it used to. “So, _Potter_ , what is it that you need?”

“Lunch,” Potter repeats, his stance slowly easing as he stares at the front windows of the shop where Faith and Myrtle can still be seen on their way down the street. “We didn’t pack anything, and it’s not as if I can just nip out and get something for myself, either, so I thought we ought to go together.” He crosses his arms, feet slightly spread, body radiating his defensive posture. “You said if I needed something, I ought to ask.”

Draco has a feeling it is the simple things which will uproot his world, not the underlying strength of the bond. He can weather the concept that he is bound to Harry Potter. He can—after some time and distance—deal with the sex; it is only _sex_ after all. But this, this companionable need to be together at all times, living together, dining together, being _domestic_ : this will be his undoing. “Very well.” He gathers things together, ensures that the shop is in proper shape before he steps out. A spell sets the time on the door for when he intends to return.

As he draws close to Potter, he fully intends to brush by him. But he can feel him, feel the tug of him drawing in, and it makes his skin shiver just to be close. He needs to close that distance, to touch skin to skin, so he does, pausing when he reaches Potter, one hand cradling his cheek. He feels the press as Potter tilts his head, leaning into the touch, and the low sigh as Potter breathes out tension Draco hadn’t realised he still held.

He feels his own tension slip free as well, like stitches tugged looser on the needle, and he closes his eyes just for a moment to breathe in the sense of Potter’s presence.

“I didn’t realise how stretched thin I felt being in the shop until now,” Potter says. “There’s been this ache all day, this sense that something’s missing. Then I came over here, and I just—I felt like if I moved, I might leap right out of my skin. And when you touched me—”

“That feeling dissolved,” Draco murmurs. “Like powder in a potion, it simply faded away, became something more and something right. This bond will wear on us, Potter. It will draw us together, and we do need to feed it lest it take a toll on our bodies.”

“I’m not going to survive weeks of this before it breaks,” Potter says baldly, pulling back, and Draco feels the loss of his touch keenly. Potter’s gaze drops, and Draco follows the path, knows that Potter stares at his crotch for just a moment, and Draco feels an answering twitch of interest in his prick.

“It isn’t all perfection for me, either,” he responds dryly. “I did enjoy my privacy, once upon a time. Although I must say, the joys of your mouth might well make up for time spent alone in bed.”

“I’m not—” Potter fails to finish the sentence, Draco’s finger touching his lips to silence him.

“Lunch,” Draco says. He lets his hand fall to the small of Potter’s back, pressing in against the robes to feel the line of his boxers beneath the fabric. He presses just enough that he knows Potter will feel the warmth of his touch and the constant pressure as he guides him from the shop and down the street.

“It is better when we touch,” Draco reminds him, and it isn’t a lie. He doesn’t know if he could walk next to Potter without touching him. He hopes that the bond either wears thin soon, or they find a way to break it that doesn’t destroy them in the process. He can feel the thrum of _want_ and _need_ in the bond, can feel himself drawn to Potter constantly. It was easier to ignore it when they weren’t in the same space, but he knows it would become worse with time.

He’s not sure how much time they have to figure it out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Lunch is a new form of torture for Harry.

It’s not that it’s unpleasant. In fact, it’s strangely easy to eat with Malfoy, once they find a topic to discuss. Harry brings up Quidditch, and that starts them down a road of comparing teams, going over statistics and the world teams, and they move from there into equipment and the latest developments in brooms.

Apparently while his wand wasn’t working, Malfoy was still brilliant with a broom between his legs. Good to know that wasn’t tied to his wand’s magic.

Wands. Broom. Harry would be bothered by the innuendo but the conversation is actually brilliant. It’s the frustration of being _so close_ without touching that is going to drive Harry mad.

He can’t understand how Malfoy does it.

They’re sitting across from each other at the table, and Harry has one hand on the surface of it, Malfoy’s hand lying close by. He can feel the heat of it, wants to shift just a bit so that his pinky brushes against him, and he has to fight from staring at their hands. It’s almost as if he can see the weave around them, tugging them together.

He can feel it beneath the table as well, tugging his foot closer to Malfoy’s leg. He lets it drift, pushes his foot out as if it’s simply a problem of long legs, relieved when he can press against Malfoy’s ankle and he doesn’t move away. Something eases under his skin at the simple contact, and he imagines the bond tangling there, tightening around them.

Harry swears it’s as if the bond likes it when they give in, as if it gains strength from their acquiescence, much like he gains calm.

“My time is almost up.” Malfoy shifts and his fingers brush against Harry’s, slow to touch and slower still to slip away. It’s subtle—Harry’s sure no one else has noticed—but it sets the bond singing under his skin. It’s like sparks from the tip of a wand: absolutely instinctual and it leaves him feeling like he’s set on fire. “I doubt I’ll have customers, although one never knows and I ought to be back before the clock I set expires.”

“Yeah, me too.” Harry doesn’t have a clock on his door, but he really shouldn’t leave the shop closed. He is mostly set up for the weekend, when he hopes to finally see people coming in, but there are still things he could do. Not to mention that he has work to do crafting new wands, if he can focus with the thrum of the bond humming under his skin and interrupting his concentration. 

He reaches for his money, but realises that Malfoy has somehow already paid for their lunch and is waiting at the door. Malfoy nudges open the door, touches the small of Harry’s back as he steps through, the touch falling away once they start walking.

Harry bites his tongue, tries not to say anything about how he wouldn’t mind if Malfoy touched him again.

“Is there a problem?” Malfoy arches one eyebrow, and Harry tries to see past the calm facade that Malfoy puts on. He knows that he’s involved here, just as much as Harry is, at least by his reaction in bed that morning. But it’s so difficult to see when he looks for it.

“Do you need something?” Malfoy asks as that eyebrow arches higher, a slow smirk starting. “Or do you just wish to go back to your shop full of wooden wands and be alone for the afternoon.”

“It’s your wand that started all this trouble,” Harry shoots back, and Malfoy grins like he’s done something spectacularly witty.

“Then are you saying you need my wand to make it better?”

They are definitely _not_ talking about wands now.

Harry flushes brightly. “I need _something_ ,” he admits, because it’s all too true. “Something to help me get through the afternoon, so I don’t come barging into your shop and get down on my knees to take care of your…” He manages to stop just before he admit just how much he keeps thinking about sucking Malfoy off. Because he shouldn’t be thinking about sucking Malfoy off. Should he?

He can’t miss the smirk that tilts Malfoy’s lips in response, like he knows _exactly_ what Harry’s imagining.

Malfoy waits until they reach Ollivanders, pushes the door open and holds it for Harry. As soon as Harry steps through, Malfoy crowds into him, nudges him back against the wall with one hand on his hip, the other gripping his wrist, holding his arm above his head.

“ _We_ need something,” Malfoy murmurs, his mouth close enough to Harry’s throat that he can feel the hot breath tickling his skin. “Touch makes it better. We need to satisfy the bond, let it know that we are aware of it, feeding it.” His lips brush skin and Harry struggles to hold back a gasp. 

It’s strange how much he _feels_. Every gentle touch of the tongue, the slow bite of lips and teeth grazing across Harry’s throat. Malfoy nips behind his ear, and Harry turns his head, twisting slightly; with better access, Malfoy sucks until Harry moans. He reaches for the nape of Malfoy’s neck with his free hand, fingers tangling in his hair. Malfoy moves with the touch, kissing along Harry’s jawline, ending with his mouth.

They fit like they were meant to come together. Harry can taste the bitterness of the tea Malfoy drank with his lunch and a hint of sweet cream. He parts his lips, and Malfoy sweeps in, swallowing Harry’s hungry whine.

_Don’t stop_.

He wants to whisper it, shout it, _beg_. He can’t say a word, silenced by Malfoy’s mouth on his, but it doesn’t matter; Malfoy obviously is on the exact same page, devouring him kiss by kiss and not letting go.

Harry melts into the wall, lets it hold his body up as Malfoy leans against him. Hips shift and Harry groans, his prick thick and aching and trapped. Malfoy catches Harry’s earlobe and _tugs_ , and it’s almost enough to undo him completely. He had no idea that an _earlobe_ was an erogenous zone, but there he is, shivering when Malfoy sucks on it.

Harry clings to him like a lifeline, fingertips hard against the back of Malfoy’s neck, other hand clinging where they are pressed together against the wall, high above his head. He is held in place, caught by Malfoy’s whims, and he loves the sensation of it, the bond thrumming under his skin, alive and thrilled with the contact.

Malfoy noses at his throat, and Harry lets his head fall back, granting every access that Malfoy might want. He swallows, and Malfoy follows the path of his Adam’s apple, licking along the line of his throat, nosing into the space at the base, sucking at the skin in the hollow where it’s tender. Harry cries out as he feels the bruise forming, the mark clearly left behind by Malfoy’s teeth.

When Malfoy finally pulls away, Harry catches himself before he simply slides down the wall. Their hands are still linked, Malfoy lowering them both slowly, bringing Harry’s fingertips to his mouth for a gentle kiss before he releases him. It’s the gentleness that catches him unawares, the way Malfoy stares at him, grey eyes dark and stormy. They both breathe in concert, in and out with thick, low gulps that they hold before releasing the air.

Harry aches with unreleased need, but at the same time, the thrum settles to a low pleasure, strangely sated.

“Better?” Malfoy asks, voice rough and cracking. A moue of irritation twists his lips, and he glances down, brushing his robes to smooth them neatly.

“Better.” Harry tries to watch him, to tease out the hidden meaning behind the word, the voice, the way he moves. But Malfoy hides too well behind his emotional walls and it would leave Harry chilled if the bond weren’t so fucking _satisfied_ at the moment. He reaches out, closes the distance between them to join Malfoy in patting him down, fixing the collar of his robes and making certain that he’s presentable. It’s strangely domestic to do this for Malfoy, but when he’s not pushed away he finishes the job, patting his shoulder when he’s done.

“It’ll do,” Malfoy says, and Harry isn’t sure if he’s referring to the robes or the situation between them. He doesn’t get the chance to ask before Malfoy yanks the door open and strides out, the door swinging shut with a clatter behind him.

There’s a clearing of a throat. “Well. That was new.”

Fuck. _Ron_.

Harry feels the heat in his cheeks, and he can’t help but be thankful that Malfoy didn’t realise they had an audience for that particular performance. “It’s not what you think.”

Ron snorts, coming around the counter so he can slap Harry on the shoulder. “Sure it’s not. You were this close to swallowing each other’s tonsils, mate. You’ve got a bloody love bite.” Ron gestures at the mark on Harry’s throat, and he touches it, feeling the pleasant burn. “There’s no shame in it,” Ron says. “Well, it’s _Malfoy_ , but you’ve always been on about him, haven’t you? We were just talking about this the other day. If you’re going to go for blokes, always kind of figured it’d be him.”

There’s a prickling over his skin, but it’s not the bond this time, it’s sheer discomfort. “It’s not… it’s not like that, Ron.” Harry pushes past him, starts picking things up around the shop, putting them back down when he realises there’s no need to clean up because everything’s already in its place. “We managed to accidentally bond me to Malfoy’s personal magic yesterday while I was fixing his wand. It sometimes…” He moves his hand between himself and the door as if to indicate the shop next door. “Sometimes it just needs us to touch.”

“That was more than touching.” Ron leans on the counter, lowers his voice, expression serious. “I mean it, mate. I don’t care if you’re into blokes or birds and you know Hermione won’t care either. We just want you to be happy, and if it’s Draco bloody Malfoy that does it for you, we’ll figure out a way to deal with it.”

“I’m still straight,” Harry protests. “I mean, we…” His words falter because he can’t figure out a way to explain this that doesn’t come out sounding wrong, and honestly, he doesn’t want to talk about his sexual fantasies with Ron. He’s never thought about this before, never found himself watching a guy’s arse or daydreaming about being on his knees, swallowing a cock until he comes. “It’s just the bond,” he says as firmly as he can manage. “I wasn’t shagging Draco Malfoy before the bond, and I won’t be when it’s gone.”

“I’m pretty sure that if you were completely straight, I wouldn’t have had to listen to some of the sounds you made.” Ron makes a face, shakes his head. “Mate, you were so _affected_ I could see it from across the room.”

“It’s just the bond,” Harry repeats, because this is a crisis he does not have time to have. It’s too much on top of the issue of being bound to Malfoy, on top of not knowing how they’re going to unwind this mess. “Speaking of which, I won’t be home tonight after all.” He summons a cloth and starts polishing the counter for lack of anything better to do. “We haven’t found a way to dissolve it, and Malfoy thinks it might fade with time. So while we’re researching, I’m going to keep on staying in his guest room.”

The door opens with a bright ring, and Harry looks up, smiling at the bloke who walks in. He’s grateful for the interruption, happy to spend a half hour going through wand after wand, even though he tells the customer several times that buying a wand as a gift isn’t advised because the wand needs to choose the wizard. In the end, he manages to convince him to come back on Saturday when he can bring his wife; he’s apparently determined that she’ll have a wand created by the famous Harry Potter, and Harry hopes he can come through with a wand of his own making that suits her.

The door closes behind the customer and Ron speaks into the silence. “I’ll nip home and pack a few things to help you to get through a few days, then.”

It’s a chance for the conversation to open back up again, and Harry doesn’t want that, so he simply nods and keeps putting the wands back in their boxes and neatly on the shelves. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.”

#

The rest of the day passes far more slowly than Harry would like, despite the waves of curious folks passing through. He spends an hour chatting with Headmistress McGonagall, showing her some of his favourite wands and talking about lore and the properties he investigates while doing repairs. She mentions three students who have already come to difficulties with their wands, and promises to point the two older ones in his direction, and to bring by the first year herself since he can’t go into Hogsmeade on his own.

Conversation is a distraction, but it doesn’t completely clear Harry’s mind of the inappropriate thoughts that linger around the edges, teasing at him, pricking at his skin. By the time he closes up shop, he feels as if he’s tingling, his lips waiting for the next kiss, skin itching for even just the slightest brush of a touch. When he closes his eyes, he finds his hand drifting lower, wanting to just get off quickly, daydreaming about what it might be like to feel Malfoy’s hand wrap around his prick, or wondering if Malfoy wants him to suck him off again.

He tries to push the thoughts away, but his prick is still half hard and that’s only because he does his damnedest to think of the most unarousing thoughts imaginable to get it to go down. It’s a bit like fighting back the tide, and all it takes is the thought of Malfoy’s bare chest as he stood there in a towel, and Harry’s rock hard again.

He putters around the shop until the last second, sets the wards and locks the front door. He pauses to wave at Padma and Parvati who are locking up across the way, and he sees Parvati yank open the door to Myriad and lean back in, yelling something that he doesn’t hear. The giggles, however, ring loud and clear over the distance, and Harry flushes brightly. He waves once more, ducks his head, and hurries to Strings of Fate.

He yanks open the door, shoves it closed quickly behind him as he assesses the situation. Malfoy’s reclining in the big comfortable chair, knitting needles in hand with a brightly coloured length of knit falling from them. And how is that even possible, that _knitting_ is attractive? But the way Malfoy looks up at him, raises one eyebrow and just _waits_ —it’s fucking hot.

There’s no one else in the shop and Harry can’t quite get his breath. His prick aches, dripping from the tip, tight in his pants; he shifts his stance, trying to adjust it without touching it, and Malfoy’s glance falls to his crotch.

“You need to close the shop now,” Harry says, and it’s meant to come out as an order but the end tilts up like a question instead.

“I do?” Malfoy doesn’t move, lowering the knitting to his lap. Harry shouldn’t look—he _shouldn’t_ —but his gaze follows the movement and he sees the bulge already starting to grow there. It lets him catch his breath, knowing that Malfoy _is_ affected, even if he tries to act as if he’s not. “Do you need something, Potter?”

“You.” The words comes out on an exhalation and Harry crowds in close, climbing into the chair to straddle Malfoy, the knitting just barely set aside in time to keep from being tangled between them. He cradles Malfoy’s face in his hands, body easing at the touch of skin to skin. “I need you.”

“Ask, Potter.” Malfoy’s hands are at his back, sliding under the edge of his shirt, nudging it up. “Ask me for what you need.”

Words tangle in his mind, the conversation with Ron coming back to him rapidly, and suddenly Harry can’t seem to suck in air. He gasps, leans his head against Malfoy’s forehead, and closes his eyes, struggling to find his center. Now that he’s here, now that he’s hard as a rock and wanting to just press against Malfoy, rub against him until they both come, he can’t imagine being anywhere else. He doesn’t know if it’s the bond or if it’s just _him_ , and maybe he isn’t as straight as he thought.

Hands shift and suddenly Malfoy holds him, tugs his head back to look him in the eye. Malfoy licks his lips, sits there with his mouth slightly open, waiting until Harry blinks. “I’ve got you,” Malfoy says quietly. “It’s okay, Potter, I’ve got you.”

It loosens the words on his tongue, and they fall out in a steady stream. “I want you to kiss me,” Harry tells him. “I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me. I want to be naked with you, and I want to rub against you, feel your prick on mine. I want to get off with you.”

Malfoy smiles, and it’s somehow gentler than his usual knowing smirk. “We can do that,” he says, just before his mouth finds Harry’s.

The kiss is gentle, slow and sweet, nipping at Harry’s lip and touching with his tongue until Harry opens his mouth and lets Malfoy in. The hands at the back of his head urge him forward, and Harry sinks into the kiss, breathing in during the tiny breaks, letting his lungs fill with the scent and taste of Malfoy. It’s good. It’s not just good, it’s sodding _brilliant_ , but Harry still wants _more_.

He gets his hands on Malfoy’s shoulders, holding on to help him shift his hips, settling into the cradle of Malfoy’s lap. He feels hands sliding from his head down his back, then fitting the curve of his arse to hold on tight, pulling him close, and oh _fuck_ that feels good. Harry shifts again, feels his cock press against another hard ridge, and he groans loudly, breaking the kiss to let his head fall forward against Malfoy’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

“We shouldn’t,” Malfoy murmurs, lips against the side of Harry’s neck, and Harry feels heat flush hard under his skin.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” 

Harry can feel the shape of Malfoy’s grin against his skin, just before the nip of teeth and a slow suck that probably burns another mark into him. He responds by grinding down against Malfoy’s hardness, trying to get closer to him.

“Slow down, Potter, or you’ll make a mess in your pants.” Malfoy grips his arse, holds him in place and Harry whines, because he wants more of it, needs to be closer. When he feels a tug at the hem of his shirt, he leans backwards to help, shedding his shirt eagerly, then tugging Malfoy’s off as well.

Malfoy doesn’t pull him back in, his hands at Harry’s waist to keep him slightly distance. It gives Harry a chance to look, then to touch, fingers skating over Malfoy’s pale skin, tickling at the silvered raised scars, going lightly over the taut nubs of his nipples. He listens to every drawn breath, every way that Malfoy almost whines, or hisses like he can’t hold the sound in any longer.

It makes Harry want to take him apart, to find that moment when Malfoy is out of control, saying things he can’t hold back, crying out because he can’t stay silent. He wonders if Malfoy would ever trust another person to let go, to leave himself in their hands long enough to step outside of his comforting control. It makes him ache to find out.

He nudges Malfoy’s head back, licks along the line of his collarbone and kisses the hollow of his throat. He sucks his own mark, bright red against the pale skin, and laps at it soothingly when it’s done. He’s aware of the way Malfoy watches him, fingers carding through Harry’s hair as he kisses lower, peppering the skin with light, liquid touch. He finds Malfoy’s nipple and laps at it first, flicking his tongue against it, circling it with his tongue before he latches on and sucks lightly. There’s a low moan and Harry’s entire body shudders, loving the sound.

He makes his way to Malfoy’s other nipple, leaving a small mark just above it, a tiny red spot that shows that Harry was _here_ before he sucks in the nipple, teases it with his tongue until Malfoy makes a low sound, a growl of frustration that sinks straight to Harry’s dick. He surges forward, feels Malfoy press up.

Malfoy’s hands are in his hair, yanking him up to kiss him again, hungry and wet, devouring his mouth this time and Harry lets him, sinks into it, lets himself be taken. He grinds down against Malfoy, not caring if it gets messy, only caring that Malfoy is grinding back up against him, and he’s _so fucking close_. “Please,” Harry whispers. “Touch me, Malfoy. _Please_.”

He hears the sound of a zip before he realises that Malfoy has both their trousers open and is reaching inside his pants, wrapping his hand around Harry’s cock. He thrusts into the tight circle of his fingers, feels a hand down the back of his trousers, squeezing his arse.

“Patience, Potter,” Malfoy murmurs, voice tight and pained. “Just… just wait. One moment.” He tugs Harry forward, shifts, moves, and on his next needy thrust, Harry realises that Malfoy holds _both_ of their cocks pressed together in his hand. Harry whines, moves again, and Malfoy makes a low approving noise. “That’s it,” Malfoy murmurs, mouth sliding along his shoulder. “That’s it, Potter. Let me feel you come with me.”

It feels good, _so good_ , the bond thrumming under his skin, humming pleasurably, wrapped around them like a comforting cloak. Harry grinds forward, rocks into Malfoy’s grip, letting his prick slide against Malfoy’s. He cries out softly, whining, thrusts again as Malfoy wanks them both. He feels like he’s hovering on the edge, doesn’t know what he’s waiting for as he starts to shudder, too close but unable to let go. “Malfoy, you have to… we have to… _please_.”

“We’re going to.” Malfoy’s breathless, gasping as he moves faster, hand and hips pressing against Harry almost frantically. He’s so close to losing control and Harry wants to know what would happen, what it would be like. He’ll take what he can get, listening to the low whine in his ear, waiting for that moment when Malfoy’s hand goes tight around his cock, squeezes and slides over both of them. “Come for me, Potter. _Come now_.”

He can’t help it, between the bond riding him, the hand on his arse, the other on his cock, and Malfoy’s voice in his ear. Harry comes with a cry, spilling over Malfoy’s hand as he strokes them both through it, Malfoy’s prick jerking just moments later, leaving them both a sticky mess.

Harry floats in the aftermath, body loose as he relaxes into Malfoy. He lies against him, chest to chest, face buried in the crook of his neck as Malfoy seems to idly stroke his back, soft and soothing while their pricks soften. The tingle from the cleaning spell isn’t unpleasant, although Harry never likes them against his skin, but he understands why Malfoy does it. He sighs a thank you, and Malfoy murmurs something unheard in response.

“I need to lock up,” Malfoy finally says softly, and Harry remembers exactly where they are, in the middle of Malfoy’s shop, right in the front. He tries to pull away, but Malfoy stops him with a shush and a promise that the windows are warded to only show the displays set up there. But still. The door was unlocked and someone could have walked in at any time, and all Harry could think about was Malfoy.

If he’s honest with himself, it’s all he can think about still.

“Up with you.” Malfoy summons Harry’s shirt, helps him back into it and gets him tucked away again. “Just sit here while I clean a few things up before tomorrow, and get the shop properly locked. Then we’ll go home.”

Malfoy’s home, not Harry’s. But it’s where he needs to be and he doesn’t have the energy to argue the issue. They switch places, Harry in the chair while Malfoy walks to the door, stops by the bag Harry dropped without thinking. He picks it up, sends it into the back room with a quiet spell, then quickly sends all the yarn back to where it belongs, neatening the shop with swift, precise spellwork.

It’s a thing of beauty, if Harry lets himself look at it like that. Malfoy’s casting is quick and neat, the wand an extension of his arm and his heart. He can’t let that be destroyed by breaking the bond incorrectly. Harry knows very little about personal cores, and everything about how they interact with wands. But this, this is new, and it involves two people and one wand, and he doesn’t want to destroy Malfoy in the process of extracting himself from this mess.

The thought leaves him unpleasantly uncomfortable, and he leverages himself from the chair, wavers on unsteady feet before Malfoy catches him, wrapping arms around him. “Don’t fall apart on me now, Potter,” Malfoy admonishes, his tone gentler than the words. Harry steadies himself against Malfoy, takes comfort from the touch of body to body, and together they slowly move to the back room and the Floo. Malfoy sends the bag through first, then waits to make sure Harry is ready to go.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry assures him. “It’s just a little post-orgasmic bliss.”

One corner of Malfoy’s mouth quirks up. “Bliss. I see.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, wanker.” Harry grabs a handful of Floo powder, and tosses it in, calling out the address and stepping quickly after. He wavers on his feet when he arrives, stumbling out of the fireplace and trying to catch his breath.

He barely has time for a thought before Malfoy arrives, and he’s still reeling from it when Malfoy catches up with him.

_Bliss_. Because if he’s honest, it’s one of the best orgasms he’s ever had. Certainly in the top five, and he’s fairly certain several of those slots already belong to Malfoy and it’s only been a day since this started.

It’s all the bond. That’s all. It has to be because of the bond.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Draco is unsettled in the aftermath of what happened in the shop. He tries to convince Potter to stay on the couch again while he makes dinner, but Potter insists on being in the kitchen this time, sitting at the table, idly preparing a salad because it’s the only thing Draco will let him do. It’s distracting to have him there; Draco can feel his presence behind him as he works, a heat that rivals the warmth of the stove. Draco handles the vegetables in a Muggle manner, needing the careful precision of the knife to focus his thoughts as he tries to ignore Potter.

“What are we having tonight?” Potter’s knife has a graceful sound against the chopping board; he has skills with a knife, as if he’s spent a good amount of time cooking in a Muggle kitchen. “And if you’ve got olive oil and balsamic, I’ll take care of dressing this for us. Do you have a block of parmesan by any chance?”

Draco doesn’t answer, simply gestures with his wand and sends the cheese sailing towards Potter before the refrigerator door closes again. “You’ll find everything else in the spice cabinet.” He points with the wand again and the door to the cabinet opens slightly. “As for dinner, we are having a creamed chicken and vegetable dish served over pasta.”

The knife pauses and he imagines Potter sitting there, watching him, as if he can feel his eyes burning on his skin.

“What is it, Potter?” Draco feels his regard like an itch between his shoulder blades. “Please, speak rather than stare. We may have been bonded but as I have said before, I cannot read your mind.”

“That’s probably for the best, considering what I’m thinking.” The words cut off abruptly, and when Draco turns, Potter is biting his lip, dark skin flushed. “Let’s just pretend that did not actually come out of my mouth,” Potter mutters.

“Are you trying to tell me you need something?” Draco can feel it between them, but it hasn’t risen to the level of _need_ yet, more like a _want_ that feels as if ties them together, pulling taut as they get closer, reeling him in. It will shift, he knows, until he can’t ignore it any longer.

“No. I just…” Potter touches the side of his head. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

If he’s honest with himself, neither can Draco. He huffs a low sigh, frustration slipping out in a single exhalation. He turns back to the stove, gets the vegetables into the broth where the chicken simmers, and sets it to low. Assuring himself that the water for the pasta is readying to boil but not quite there yet, he sets the utensils carefully to one side.

Potter looks up when Draco pulls out a chair to join him at the table.

“I think we need to discuss rules,” Draco says, trying to keep his voice even. “We need to discuss what is happening between us, as it is obvious that it is escalating. The need to be close to each other continues to grow, and it seems that we are both more than amenable to doing what is required for the moment.”

“I’m not—” Potter stops abruptly when Draco raises an eyebrow. Potter’s lips press together thinly. “It’s _sex_ ,” Potter mutters. “It’s the bond. It’s not… it doesn’t mean anything.”

Slow inhale, exhale. Draco keeps his mask in place, nods once at Potter’s words. “Very well, it is simply sex. It is also touch and human contact, and it is _required_ to feed this bond lest we end up in immense pain. It seems that simple contact keeps the pain at bay for a time—kissing helped us survive the afternoon.”

Potter opens his mouth, snaps it closed again, licks his lips. Draco wonders what he’s refusing to say, but suspects he knows. The afternoon was pain free, but it had certainly been filled with thoughts and fantasy, somewhat fulfilled when the door had opened and he found himself with a lap full of aroused Potter.

He reaches out, lets his fingers slide across the back of Potter’s hand, watches the way Potter shivers under his touch. Draco curls his hand around Potter’s fingers, lifts them and kisses the tips gently, feels the way the simple gesture slots into a comfortable space under his skin, easing the building tension. It isn’t merely sex; affection is an intricate part of the bond, and it is becoming difficult to hide that from Potter. Draco doesn’t want him to know that he _cares_ , that he aches not just for an orgasm, but for the simpler touches. 

Draco doesn’t want to give Potter the ammunition to bleed him dry.

Potter’s fingers twitch in his grasp, but he doesn’t pull back until Draco places his hand on the table, untangles himself. “What are you suggesting?” Potter asks.

“We should share a bed at night.” Draco schools his voice, making it a reasonable request rather than begging for something he suspects they both need. “For one, it will provide several hours of close contact in order to sustain us through the day. For two, should any needs _arise_ , we will be well able to take care of them quickly and neatly without having to seek one another out.”

“No.” Potter pulls his hands both off the table, shoves back. “Malfoy, this isn’t a _relationship_. We’re not even roommates. I am _not_ giving in to this more than I already have. The sex is great, okay? Is that what you want to hear? It’s fucking _brilliant_. So yes, you’re good in bed, and apparently I’m good when I’m with you, but that’s not… we’re not… it’s not romantic. I don’t want to sleep next to you. I don’t want to _hold_ you. I don’t need that.” He licks his lips, breathes roughly, chest rising and falling in a way that makes Draco stare at him. Potter takes a step backwards, hands coming up. “You’ve already invaded my dreams. Not my bed, too.”

When Potter leaves the kitchen, Draco knows he can’t go too far, not without leaving the flat which would put both of them in pain. He doesn’t need to follow; he can let Potter have the time he needs to think.

Instead, Draco rises and finds the vinegar and oil, leaving them on the table for Potter to finish dressing the salad when the time comes. He puts the pasta in to boil and prepares the cream and goat cheese to add to the chicken dish as it finishes cooking. Once everything is complete aside from the salad, he puts it under a preservation spell and goes to sit on the couch, a book in his hands that he isn’t actually reading.

His proposal was reasonable. 

It was also purely selfish.

Draco wants to share a bed with Potter. He _needs_ it, he can feel it in his bones as the bond wraps around them both. But he’s not going to _force_ him into his bed.

Oh, Draco is not above ordering Potter around when he needs to. Making _suggestions_ that are intently worded that put Potter exactly where he wants to see him. But that’s during sex, when he’d rather have Potter on his knees than on the bed, not a coercion into having sex in the first place. They may both be bound, but the decision to withstand the pain belongs to both of them.

He will let Potter deny him.

Because Merlin help him, Draco actually _cares_.

He sits there, idly turning pages that he doesn’t read, for another five minutes, then summons a skein of yarn and needles that Millicent gave him a while ago, when he first started working for her on Diagon Alley. There’s a pattern with the skein, some sort of chunky-knit hat that supposedly _knits like magic_ according to the flyer. He strokes one finger along the yarn, feels the way it shivers under his touch. It’s warm where it lies across his hand, and enticingly soft.

It’s a struggle to get the yarn on the first needle; it takes him three tries before the stitches lie almost neat and relatively even. But once he’s made it that far, the first rows come more easily than it did when he began the scarf, and after a solid half an hour, he has several rows of progress and has finished the brim. The pattern for the rest of the hat doesn’t look difficult—simply a random-seeming scatter of knit and purl that evolves into a design—but he’s loathe to start it now, before bed.

It’s strange, though, how handling the yarn puts him at ease. Not as well as touching Potter, but it still settles his skin and soothes the bond that he is beginning to think lies wrapped around his heart.

The door to the guest room opens, closes, and footsteps tread down the hall to Draco’s own room. Another open and close of the door, then Potter makes his way to the living room, sinks down next to Draco on the couch. Fingers touch Draco’s hand, and he turns it, palm up, lets Potter hold onto him carefully.

“Fuck,” Potter whispers under his breath, and Draco almost manages to smile.

“I don’t think this is the time,” he replies, just as softly.

“I wasn’t offering.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Draco sets the yarn and needles aside, turns on the couch to give Potter his full attention. He knows what he _thinks_ is happening, but he refuses to make assumptions, refuses to acknowledge the way his heart has sped up in anticipation. “Have you come to a decision then?”

“I’ve put my things in your room.” Potter licks at his lips, blinks when he realises Draco watches the motion. “Because you’re right, the bond wants us to be together. And the more we’re together, the more it wants, but the better it feels. And we can’t just yank everything apart or else we’ll fuck with your magic. So I’ll sleep in your room, and we’ll… we’ll do whatever it is that we’re going to do. And it’s okay.” He hesitates, leaning towards Draco, then carefully leans in to brush his lips against Draco’s, tongue flicking out to touch the seam of his lips. “It’s okay.”

It’s not enthusiastic consent, but it’s definitely consent, spoken aloud. Draco brings one hand up to touch the side of his face, cradle his cheek and brush his skin with his thumb. “Whatever it is we’re going to do?” Draco asks, smiling against Potter’s mouth as he kisses him again. “For now, I suggest we sleep. _Just_ sleep. I think we both need it.”

#

It takes time to arrange themselves on the bed, but they finally find the right position with Draco spooned next to Potter, one arm thrown across his chest, one leg holding him in place. Potter has an arm splayed across the other side of the bed, and it’s only moments before he’s snoring softly. Draco snorts at the sound, closes his eyes, and it’s all too easy to match Potter’s breathing and slide into sleep himself.

It would all be perfect if Draco didn’t wake in the middle of the night, blinking into darkness at the sound of a moan. He’s behind Potter now, his hand pressed against Potter’s chest, hips pressed against his arse as he grinds closer. And Potter moans _again_ , whimpering in his sleep, hips shifting like he’s trying to fuck the air.

It’s not kind to leave him in this state, aching and unrelieved. Draco presses his forehead against Potter’s shoulder and tries to still his own body, to hold back, even as he slides his hand down and slips under the band of Potter’s pyjamas. His skin is hot and tight, his prick already dripping from the tip when Draco strokes him. Potter whines at the touch, thrusts into the circle of Draco’s fingers, and he obliges with movement, stroking from root to tip, giving him something to fuck into.

“Fuck,” Potter whispers, and he pushes back into the space Draco has left between them, firm arse pressing against Draco’s already hard cock. Draco tries to swallow a sound, but it escapes, a low, bitten off cry that he kisses into Potter’s shoulder.

When Potter turns his head, his eyes are wide open, staring at Draco. “Yes,” he says, and Draco surges into action, rolling Potter onto his back as he slides over him. He manages to manoeuvere their pyjamas down, kicking them off the edge of the bed and leaving them naked. 

Draco settles into the cradle of Potter’s legs, hips idly rutting together, the slide of their cocks against each other enough to make him moan again. He shudders at the feel of it, needing more, needing to taste Potter so he kisses him, slips his tongue into his mouth with a shallow, hungry thrust. Potter reaches for him, tangles his fingers in Draco’s hair, holds him in place until Draco shakes him loose. He carefully places Potter’s hand to one side, presses it into the bed as he nuzzles in against his throat, nips at tender skin.

Potter whines, reaches for Draco with his other hand, surges up to push him back, suck at his nipple. But that’s not what Draco wants, and he takes Potter’s other hand, grips both wrists and raises them above Potter’s head, presses them against the mattress as he holds them there, staring down. 

They are touching at two points—hips and hands—and Draco rolls his body forward, using his own prick to stroke against Potter’s. Draco leans in, lightly kisses Potter, pulling back when Potter tries to chase him and meeting his gaze. He stares into those green eyes and very carefully lets go of Potter’s hands, one at a time. “Stay like that,” Draco orders quietly, and he shivers when Potter nods, and he _does_.

Draco has his hands on Potter’s shoulders, giving him a better angle to grind down against Potter, frotting against him in careful motion, limiting each drag so he doesn’t end this too soon. Potter’s hips lift to meet him, but nothing else moves, hands twisted in the sheets and held above his head, clinging to keep himself there.

Potter is stretched out under him for his enjoyment, and it coils hot and hard in Draco’s guts to see him. “You look so perfect like this,” he whispers, thrusting hard, that tightness already drawing up his thighs, his balls tucked in against his body. He is close, so fucking close, just from seeing Potter like this, just from the way that green gaze follows him. _Trusts_ him. He struggles to keep his eyes open, refusing to let Potter go as he shudders, spilling over Potter’s cock.

He reaches down, uses his own fluids to wank Potter quick and hard until Potter arches off the bed, crying out as he comes.

Draco bows his head, closes his eyes as he catches his breath. When he opens them again, Potter is still in the same position, hands high above his head, and Draco reaches to bring each hand back down where it belongs. He casts a gentle cleaning spell, not wanting to wake glued together in the morning, then stretches out with Potter, arms and legs tangled as they fall into each other, and slide back into sleep.

#

Draco wakes when Potter rolls to sit up on the edge of the bed. It’s morning already, the light peeking in around the edges of the curtain, and a quick _Tempus_ shows that his alarm spell would be going off in just a few minutes so he ends it since he’s already awake. “Something wrong?” he asks, when Potter simply sits there, naked arse all too attractive without the sheets to hide it. Draco barely resists reaching out to draw a finger across the top of his arse, to slide it into the cleft.

“I’ve got a thing on Sunday,” Potter says to the floor. “It’s at the Weasleys’.”

“With your girlfriend? Won’t that be awkward?” Draco slides out of bed, letting the sheets puddle back on the mattress, not caring that he’s naked. He uses his body like a shield, knowing Potter won’t be able to look at him as long as he parades his nudity in the open.

“She’s not my girlfriend, Malfoy. Hasn’t been for a while yet, but they’re still like family.” Potter pushes to his feet, and when he meets Draco’s gaze it’s with a resolute stare that doesn’t drop an inch below his eyes. “It’s not a small thing. It’ll be all of Ron’s family, and our friends as well, like Luna, and my cousin. I think you’ll know almost everyone there.”

“What makes you think _I’ll_ be there?” Draco asks dryly, the words ill-considered, given the situation. They sound hurt to his ears, irritable in the wake of _ignoring_ what happened during the night. He yanks a towel out of the drawer and tosses it to Potter, wrapping a second one around his own waist. “Or is this your way of inviting me to your _family_ event?”

“I can’t exactly go if you’re not there,” Potter snaps. “Unless you have some way of unwinding this mess between us before the work day ends on Sunday, if I’m going, then you’re coming with me.”

The words clench in Draco’s chest, squeezing tightly. He presses his lips together, grits his teeth and feels the muscle in his jaw go taut. “Ask, Potter,” he orders. “If you want something from me—if you _need_ something from me—all you need to do is _ask_.”

Potter finishes tucking his towel in around his waist, and by the time he looks back up, his expression softens. “Come with me on Sunday, Malfoy,” he says quietly. “You can talk to Hermione about this,” he gestures between them, “if we haven’t solved it by then. And Luna would love to see you. If you bring your knitting with you, you won’t be able to get away from Molly, Hermione, or Luna.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” The question is needy to Draco’s ears, but it only seems to irritate Potter. He looks away, scrubs a hand through the back of his hair, body stiff.

The rap of an owl’s claw against the window saves them both from whatever his answer may or may not be. Draco pushes the window open and his parents’ owl and Elliot both fly in, carrying several wrapped packages between them. Draco summons the treats, spilling them out on the top of the bureau to distract the owls while he opens the packages on his bed.

There are a good dozen books from the Malfoy library, covering all manner of topics from charms to curses, every possible option for creating temporary or permanent bonds. He sifts through them, setting aside the ones that seem either most likely, or like something he would prefer to read. He’s aware of Potter standing next to him, sorting through as well and choosing his own. They are silent as Potter picks one up, opens it and is distracted by the first page, running one finger down it, mouth moving slightly as he follows along. It should look ridiculous, but Draco finds it oddly endearing.

He huffs an irritated sigh and starts to peruse a book of his own, if only to avoid looking at Potter again.

“I don’t think this one is like the others.” Potter pushes a book under Draco’s nose, and he has to juggle the one in his hand and that in order to avoid dropping them both.

_Best Stitches for the Best Stitch Witches_. Of course. Someone must have mentioned to his mother that he had begun to knit. “Do not mock my knitting unless you wish to be gifted a jumper that magically transforms to become three sizes too small as soon as you put it on,” Draco says dryly. “Given my profession, it only makes sense that I learn to handle a pair of needles.”

“Which you are learning to handle as well as you manage a wand,” Potter says. He sets his pile of books on the bed, casts another quick _Tempus_ and swears under his breath. “We’re going to be late. Not that it matters; I doubt we’ll have customers beating down our doors today. But it’s best if we’re on time.”

“Then we’ll have to make up time somehow.” Draco points a wand at the door, casts a spell that he knows will reach the kitchen and set the tea to brewing. Another spell puts muffins on the counter—he trusts his spellwork, since these are tried and true spells that worked even when his wand refused to obey properly. “Breakfast will be waiting for us. We should share the shower.”

Potter hesitates, one hand on the edge of his towel as Draco drops his own and pads to the door. Draco glances back over his shoulder, “Is there a problem, Potter?”

“Of course not. Because we should probably shower together anyway, just in case sleeping together wasn’t enough.” Potter pushes past him, dropping the towel on the way, bare-arsed as he stalks toward the bathroom. He glances back as if to say _coming_ and Draco wants to tell him _not yet, but soon_.

He crowds into the bathroom after him, twists the shower on with a practiced touch, setting it to just the right temperature. There’s barely enough room for the two of them beyond the curtain, and Draco doesn’t hesitate to nudge Potter against the wall, soaping his hands and sliding them over Potter’s body. There’s a soft whisper of assent, and Potter pushes back, whispers _more_ , and Draco gives it to him, digging his fingers against Potter’s scalp, soaping him quickly and scrubbing, massaging, then rinsing him off. 

Potter turns back to face him, lets the wall keep his weight as he soaps his own hands, runs them over Draco’s front, teases at every inch of skin. He meets Draco’s eyes, green holding grey prisoner as he lets his hands go lower, captures Draco’s prick in the tight circle of his fingers. He tugs once, and Draco is already hard, too hard to just let it go.

“Don’t start something you don’t want to finish,” Draco murmurs, and Potter presses forward, stroking him again.

“Who says I don’t want to finish it?” Potter asks, and Draco’s heart skips a beat, words catching in his throat. He captures Potter’s hands, raises them slowly as he nudges Potter to turn, facing him towards the wall again. 

Draco wraps one hand carefully around Potter’s wrists, holds them high above his head, notes how Potter’s head bows, his body arching as he whines. Draco kisses words into the curve of Potter’s shoulder, nips them into his skin. “Do you want this, Potter?” he whispers as the water pours down over them. “Do you _need_ this?”

“Yes,” Potter murmurs in reply. “Fuck _yes_ , Malfoy.”

Draco reaches for the soap with his free hand, spills it liberally over his cock and the crack of Potter’s arse. “I’m not going to fuck you,” he says softly because he doesn’t want Potter thinking he’ll take advantage of the bond more than they already have. Instead he leans forward, presses his hips flush against Potter’s taut arse, his cock lying in the groove between his arse cheeks. The soap makes it a slick passage, and he moans as he thrusts against him, sliding through the channel of Potter’s arse. 

“You have such a perfect arse, Potter,” Draco whispers, kissing the curve of his shoulder, the nobs of his spine. He grips Potter’s wrists more tightly, lifts until Potter whimpers, stretched taut as he leans into the wall. Draco reaches for his prick with his free hand, stroking him hard as he fucks through the warmth of his arse cheeks. He lowers his forehead to Potter’s shoulder, breathes heavily because _oh fuck_ Potter is hot like this, pliant under Draco’s touch, hands staying where Draco puts them. He is so _perfect_ , and Draco wonders how much is the bond and how much is simply _Potter_ being exactly what Draco has always wanted and needed in a partner in the bedroom.

“Are you close?” Draco asks, and Potter whines, whimpers piteously, grinding back against Draco’s thrusts, pushing into the circle of his fingers. Draco gives him what he needs, wanks him hard and fast, rolling his hand around the head of Potter’s prick, pushing back down as he thrusts hard between his cheeks. “I want to feel you, Potter. I want to feel you come all over my hand.” Potter’s hips stutter, and Draco groans, needing to pause before he thrusts again, harder than before. “Just like that, Potter. Let me feel you—oh _fuck_.” 

Warmth covers his hand, hot and spurting as Potter cries out and Draco fucks against him, pulling both hands back to grip Potter’s arse, pushing the globes of his cheeks together, making the slick channel tighter as he drives against him, spilling moments later all over the small of Potter’s back.

He can’t breathe, arms wrapped around Potter, hands pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his touch. Potter’s arms lower slowly, echo the path of Draco’s arms, holding him tight as they stand there under the streaming water.

The shower goes cold by the time they rinse off again and climb out, but Draco feels sated. He glances at Potter while they dress and he sees a small smile quirking his lips, which brings a smile to Draco as well. Something eases in his chest, and he reaches out, touching Potter’s shoulder for just a moment, drawing back when Potter throws him a confused and curious look.

“I think we’ll be all right for the day,” Draco murmurs, just for something to say. It doesn’t come close to what he means, but Potter seems to accept it, and they go on with readying for the day.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

No matter what he said, Harry expected more business than he gets. He knows he should relax and enjoy the calm before the storm of his official grand opening on Hogsmeade day, but the prick of the bond under his skin is too distracting. 

He lays books out on the counter, three of them open at once to different chapters on bonds and magic. Two are from the Malfoy library, and one is his own reference, on the bond between wizard and wand. He shifts from book to book, managing only a paragraph or two before he switches topics.

The door rings and he glances up, smiling slightly to see Lavender walk in. “Hey.”

“Hi, Harry, Luna sent me over to check in with you.” Lavender sets a glass bowl on the counter, a delicate spun blue glass thing filled with three radishes. “And she wanted to make sure you have this in your shop. It’s a ward of some kind, she says. She insisted that you have it after some conversation she had with Dudley last night.”

Harry has no idea what his cousin could have said that would result in radishes for his shop, but he supposes it could have been worse. “You’ll be there Sunday, right?” It’s awkward sometimes, the way their extended group has gone beyond their Hogwarts relationships and sprawled into something more. As a whole, they all get on, but every once in a while he expects Lavender and Hermione to explode into rivalry, even though Ron’s so besotted over Hermione he’s entirely forgotten that he used to date Lavender.

She smiles slightly, cheeks pink. “I’ll be there. Bill insists that I have to spend more time being social—controlling the beast in crowds, he calls it—and Fleur claims that there is no better crowd to practice with than your family. Plus, I think they expect me to mind Victoire for a time. And Charlie said he’s going to be there.”

Lavender is almost as much of a part of the Weasley family as anyone else, after she and Bill bonded over their respective attacks from Greyback. But this thing with Charlie—Harry just hopes it works out and doesn’t leave her heartbroken over another Weasley brother. “You’ve been talking to him?” he asks, because that sounds hopeful.

She lifts one shoulder. “We’ve owled. He doesn’t have a Floo, so it’s been months since we’ve actually talked face to face.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, the movement letting Harry see a glimpse of the scars that she usually hides. “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

“If you’ve been owling for months, I’d say you’ve got a brilliant chance, Lav.” This isn’t Harry’s usual place, being reassuring for his friends. He’s always made a hash of his own relationships, and they rarely come to him for advice. But Lavender’s something different, ever since the war. She’s still giggly and silly, but those moments when she’s looking for serious conversation, she seeks out Harry for no reason he can really understand. “Besides, he’s got Bill and Ron to give him all the warnings so he knows what he’s getting into. If he’s interested, he’s going in eyes open, and he’s interested in _you_ , not some giggling bubblehead that you’re pretending to be.”

She bites her lip, flushing as the hair falls back over her face. “Thanks, Harry. And what about you and Malfoy? I don’t have to go scare him into submission again, do I?”

Harry has a hard time with _Malfoy_ and _submission_ in the same sentence. Seems like it’s usually Harry submitting, with his hands over his head, and now that’s a thought he doesn’t need right this moment. He looks down at the page, reads a sentence but it doesn’t help push the image away. And now that the bond’s awake, it’s tickling at him, urging him to do something about it.

“We’re as fine as we can be,” he says, breathing slow to keep his tone even. “Ron caught us snogging yesterday.”

“Snogging?” Lavender’s eyebrows go up. “It’s progressed to that?”

Harry laughs drily. “Since you’ve gone and mentioned him, all I can think about right now is how I want to go over there and shove him into the back room and blow him.” He can feel the heat in his face and can’t quite look her in the eyes; her fond laugh doesn’t help. “It’s a demanding bond, and I’ve been reading all morning trying to figure out how to unwind it, but I can’t.”

She hitches herself up onto the counter, looks down at the books with a frown. “You’re the one who created it, so you ought to be the one who can undo it. Have you thought about what you’re going to do after it’s all fixed?”

“I’m beginning to think it’ll never be fixed,” Harry mutters.

“But when it is,” she insists. “Harry, think about it. Are you still going to be pining after his prick when you don’t have a magical bond between you?”

That’s a thought that’s still too raw to touch, so he lifts one shoulder and chooses to ignore it. “I’m just trying to get through the day without rushing over there to make this feel better.”

She giggles. “Giving Draco Malfoy a blow job would make you feel better?”

“Infinitely,” he admits.

Lavenders swings her feet over and drops behind the counter, nudges at him. “Then go. I’ll watch your shop for you until you get back. Just tell me something. Are you happy with this?”

He starts to say _no_. He really wants to say no, because he’s bonded accidentally with the man he’s hated since they were boys. But at the same time, the sex is brilliant, and he remembers how it felt to wake up curled in Malfoy’s arms and it was _good_. “It’s complicated,” he finally manages to say, and Lavender nods like he’s said something important.

“Go,” she orders, flicking her fingers at him, and Harry does.

#

Strings of Fate is empty except for Malfoy. Harry doesn’t waste time, putting his hands on Malfoy’s chest, pushing him into the back room where they can have some semblance of privacy. He doesn’t need this to be slow and easy, he just wants to get Malfoy off, to taste him on his tongue.

Harry goes to his knees, fingers deftly opening the fly of Malfoy’s trousers. He reaches in, lifts out his rapidly hardening prick, and swallows him down before he’s even fully erect. His tongue teases at the head, toying with the foreskin as the head emerges, a low sound escaping at the taste of the first droplet on his tongue.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful like that,” Malfoy murmurs, and Harry preens on the inside, makes a low sound of pleasure as he reaches up to grip Malfoy’s thighs, give himself something to brace against.

He pulls back, looks up at Malfoy. “I need you,” he says quietly. “I want to blow you until you can’t hold back. I want to taste you, swallow you. This is me asking, Malfoy. I want you.”

Something melts in Malfoy’s gaze, the silver of his eyes liquid and dark. He nods once, whispers _yes_ as he cradles Harry’s head, thumb light against the corner of his mouth. “Please,” Malfoy says.

Harry starts more slowly this time, one hand at the base of Malfoy’s prick, just barely teasing the head with his tongue. He wanks him just a bit with the foreskin, sliding up and down until Malfoy’s hips shift, fucking into the circle of his fingers. Harry finally takes him in then, grips Malfoy’s thighs as he opens his mouth wide, licks from root to tip. He wants to get him wet, wants to make it sloppy and tight all at once.

He wants to worship Malfoy, to give him the kind of blow job that he is _never_ going to forget.

When Malfoy moans, Harry pauses, gives him time to recover. He draws it out, until Malfoy shudders, whispers that he can’t hold back. Then Harry picks up the pace, wanking him while he laps at the head, catching Malfoy’s orgasm on his tongue and swallowing it.

The bond purrs inside of him, pleased at the taste.

“Come here.” Malfoy tucks himself away and does up his fly, then carefully helps Harry to his feet. They move together to one of the wooden chairs in the back room, behind a table and away from the fireplace. Malfoy sits first, brings Harry onto his lap, straddling Malfoy’s legs.

Harry stays there, staring at Malfoy, waiting, and it’s Malfoy who moves first, tugging Harry down to kiss him, slow and lazy. It’s like the warmth of a blanket on a cold morning, wrapped in Malfoy’s arms, stealing kiss after kiss, just exploring each other’s mouths without heat. Soft murmurs without words, little pleased sounds.

It’s strangely perfect.

Harry hears the Floo flare to life, feels the way Malfoy stiffens, but the hand at the back of his head keeps him where he is and Harry can’t resist one more kiss before they’re interrupted.

“Is this how you’re fixing your wand?” Millicent snorts as she steps into the room. “Seems like you’ve figured out how to make sure it’s a good stiff one, Potter. Draco said you were good with a wand, but I didn’t figure you’d be doing that right here.”

Harry’s face goes hot, and he slowly slides from Malfoy’s lap.

“Hello, Millicent.” Malfoy stands, tone dry and low. The Floo flares again and Marcus Flint steps through, carrying three boxes.

“Don’t mind us, we’re just working here.” Millicent gestures at Flint. “New products, Draco, want you to take a look at them. Unless you’re too busy with your own _work_ , since it’s obvious you were enjoying it.”

Harry’s all too aware of how sensitive his lips feel, of the thickness of his prick that’s too tight in his pants. Flint’s gaze drops; he looks away as if he hadn’t noticed anything, but it only makes the heat under Harry’s skin feel worse. He sidles closer to Malfoy without thinking, and their fingers are linked, the connection settling Harry’s heart.

“Perhaps it would be best if you stopped by at another time,” Malfoy suggests. “Like tomorrow. Or even in an hour.”

“An hour.” Millicent settles herself into one of the chairs, hands propped atop her pregnant belly. “That’s a long time to be playing with wands, boys. I’m pretty sure we could step out front and Potter here could have that all fixed for you in minutes.”

“ _Millicent_.” Malfoy’s voice is sharp, cutting through the air and she has the grace to flinch at it. “Leave Potter be. The bond requires what it requires, and you do not need to make it any more difficult for him.”

“Seems like you’re pretty hard, true,” she says, making a noise when Malfoy glares at her. Harry’s heart is thumping so hard he figures they have to hear it, but he doesn’t want to walk past everyone to get out.

He doesn’t want to let go of Malfoy’s hand.

“Take this out to put on a display.” Flint shoves a box into Millicent’s hands, and she grunts as she gets up slowly and carries it out into the store. The bell rings, and Harry can hear a customer there to distract her. He half expects Malfoy to walk away as well, talk to his own customer, but he stays by Harry’s side, squeezing his fingers gently.

“Did you bring something for me to see?” Malfoy asks. Flint hoists the two remaining boxes onto the table, opening them both. One holds dark colours—earth tones, mixed with hints of the sky—and the other is tiny skeins of so many colours that Harry can’t even think to catalog them all. Malfoy reaches in with his free hand, touches the skeins lightly from each box as if he’s tasting them with his fingertips.

Flint takes one of the dark skeins out, unwinds a length of yarn and twists it around the fingers of each of his hands. He tugs slowly until it’s taut, then keeps pulling while Harry sees his muscles bulge. He lets it go slack, then tugs sharply, hard and fast, but nothing happens. “Unbreakable yarn,” Flint says. “Still testing it, and it might not go well if you don’t use a whole skein, since it’s hard to cut. I’m working out ways to make fibers better at taking charms in general, so a person could layer in protections after the product’s done, but I thought some folks would like it to be done for them, beforehand, and it’s nice to know something won’t fall apart after you’ve worked hard on putting it together.”

Malfoy makes a small noise of assent, nudging at Harry so they both move closer to the other box. He spills several of the bright skeins onto the table. “And this? These are too small for any single project.”

“Meant to be used in combinations, things like friendship bracelets that folks like to make. The thread knows itself, it’s bound, so if you make two bracelets out of one skein, they’ll be linked.”

Harry can’t help but think that it’s about them somehow, or perhaps it’s a cautionary tale. He reaches for the bright red and the green and holds them up together. “It’s us,” he says, and Malfoy’s mouth quirks into a smirk that slowly fades to something thoughtful.

“Don’t listen to Millicent,” Flint says quietly. “She just likes to give folks shit; always has. She’s got a sharp tongue, but she loves Malfoy and wants him happy. She won’t like you on principle, seeing as you’ve harmed him in the past. You’ve got history. On the other hand, you’re the Saviour, and she can’t ignore that.”

Harry bites his lip, not sure how to respond to all of that.

“Are we going to sit here listing Potter’s qualities all day?” Malfoy arches one eyebrow, and Harry can’t forget that he still hasn’t let go, that they are still linked by tangled fingers.

“I’m just trying to say, ignore her,” Flint rumbles. “Ignore everyone. What we think about this doesn’t matter, right? It’s what the two of you think. If it’s accidental and you break it, then fine, but some things aren’t meant to be broken. It’s not worth ignoring the good things just because you think folks are telling you to be or do something else. Just be what you need to be. It’s better that way.”

“I…” Harry trails off, not sure how to respond or if he even needs to. Flint’s expression is serious, holding onto Harry’s for a long moment before he looks at Malfoy, as if something significant and unsaid passes between them. Then Flint looks away and packs the boxes back up.

“They’re just samples. Try to get folks to try them out.”

“I will.” Malfoy waits and watches while Flint ducks back into the Floo. Out in the front, Millicent is still working with a customer, her voice cheery as she rings them up. Malfoy licks his lips, looks back at Harry.

“I ought to leave,” Harry says. “I left Lavender minding the shop and it’s been a while now.” He doesn’t know what to do with the look Malfoy is giving him, as if he can see beneath the skin and to the heart underneath, and Harry has no idea what he actually sees there. “You can… you can knit. And spend time with Millicent, and going through your yarn. Molly might like some of that unbreakable yarn. It’s not as bright as she usually likes, but she’d be interested in something that doesn’t get beaten up when we’re all out on the Quidditch pitch.”

“I’ll pack some up to bring on Sunday,” Malfoy murmurs. He squeezes Harry’s fingers, finally letting go when Harry flexes and tugs back. “I have a thought for something to try tonight that might make tomorrow easier with the bond.” He holds up a finger. “Let me think it through this afternoon and we’ll talk tonight.”

“Right. After we make it through the rest of the work day.” Harry moves closer to the door, glances out to see if Millicent is lying in wait for him. He pauses to try to rearrange himself, making it easier to walk when his prick is still aching and hard.

Malfoy’s gaze follows the path of his hand. “Do you need something, Potter?”

Physically, yes, but it’s not the bond. It’s just an erection that wants to be taken care of, and Harry’s managed to ignore those before. “Right this second? No. But I will later. You’ll probably know when it’s time to come visit me.”

He leaves the shop then, walks out while he can still feel the heat of Malfoy’s gaze on his backside.

And an hour later, when Malfoy strides through the door of Ollivanders and locks it behind him, then lifts Harry onto the counter, he doesn’t argue at all. He doesn’t say a word when Malfoy swallows him down, doesn’t even whisper when Malfoy teases him for minutes on end until the orgasm breaks free and Harry comes with a shout.

No words, but he has kisses for him after, and Malfoy leaves him there with a brush of lips against his forehead and a sated bond.

It’s a strange sort of routine they’ve developed, but it seems to be working for now.

#

Harry lies on Malfoy’s couch with his feet across Malfoy’s lap, his head pillowed on the arm rest. He’s reading through his own wand lore references, one of the more obscure texts with a chapter about wand repairs and required modifications after a significant change to the owner. He isn’t sure if that’s the reason things went sideways, but he has to admit that Malfoy isn’t the same boy who received that wand when he was eleven years old. It’s at least a possible option.

Malfoy sets his own book aside after a time and summons a small basket of yarn that he brought home from the shop. Harry lowers his book just enough to be able to peer over the edge, curious what he’s doing.

He’s almost used to seeing Malfoy knit now, either the scarf that is almost completed, or the hat that he started the night before. But this time Malfoy sifts through the basket, pulling out small hanks of green and silver and red and gold. Harry sets the book down across his chest, done with reading. The colour choice is obvious; the only question is _why_.

Malfoy carefully finds the end of each strand and begins a complicated braid, entwining the four colours together so that they weave in and out, blending into a unique pattern. He twists them together until he has a length that he tests around his wrist, then ties it off. As soon as it’s done, he starts a second one, exactly the same as the first.

“Friendship bracelets?” Harry asks. He remembers them as a Muggle thing that all the girls did when he was barely ten years old. He’s pretty sure he saw one on Dudley’s wrist when they were older, a token of affection from some girl he was seeing at the time.

He’s never seen one on an adult.

“Bond bracelets,” Malfoy says, reaching for Harry’s wrist. Harry has to move the book to the table in order to be able to sit forward enough to offer his arm, his feet sliding from Malfoy’s lap. Malfoy grips him firmly around the wrist, thumb sliding over his pulse point for just long enough to make Harry shiver.

“It’s the yarn Flint brought. The one made for friendship bracelets,” Harry muses. When Malfoy tucks one of the bracelets around his wrist, tying the ends neatly and securing them with a quick spell, the braid is warm against his skin. Malfoy offers his own wrist, and Harry repeats the process for him, making it so that they match.

As soon as they both wear the bracelets, Harry can feel it, as if Malfoy is touching his wrist. He runs his fingers over the bracelet, sees the way Malfoy’s eyebrows slide up. “I think it works,” Harry says.

“There is definitely a connection between the two items made from the same yarn.” Malfoy reaches for Harry’s feet, places them back across his knees as he leans back and summons his knitting. “We can’t report success to Marcus—after all, our perceptions may be changed by the bond we already share. But I thought that if we are already woven together in some manner, perhaps this might help us get through the day tomorrow.” His fingers settle on Harry’s ankle, idly toying with the hem of his trousers, sliding along his ankle bone. “It isn’t going to be easy when we’re surrounded by customers and have no time to assuage the bond.”

“And you think this will help.” Harry lies back and closes his eyes, just running his fingers over the pattern of the braid. He can feel each small bump and valley and it soothes him somehow to touch it. It’s hard to separate this touch from the feel of Malfoy’s fingers against his skin, but he thinks Malfoy might be right and it will help. “It’s going to be a long day. We probably won’t even get to meet for lunch.”

“We might barely get to _eat_ lunch,” Malfoy grumbles. “I suspect it will be similar to back to school days in Diagon Alley, or the holidays.”

“Mm.” Harry stretches, presses his foot closer to Malfoy’s fingers, whining when he moves. When he opens his eyes, Malfoy has his knitting in his hand, the scarf trailing over Harry’s legs and down to the ground. “You really are almost done with that.”

“I was thinking I might give it to Lovegood.” Malfoy focuses intently on each stitch and making them perfect. Harry feels a smile start to twitch at the idea of Malfoy and Luna as friends. It’s almost as good as the idea that Luna is dating his cousin. “It seems to be the sort of colours she would enjoy,” Malfoy continues. “And I suspect she will enjoy the enhanced abilities of the yarn. I should warn her that it might get jealous of her other scarves.”

“Luna might be one of the few people you can say that to and she’ll believe you.” Harry moves just enough to run his foot down Malfoy’s calf. “I like that you get on with her now.”

He can almost see Malfoy working through the words in his mind, picking them with care. “She’s my neighbour in Hogsmeade,” he finally says. “And…” he pauses, a small rueful smile quirking his lips. “She amuses me.”

“You could call her Luna.”

“I do, when I speak to her.” Malfoy raises one eyebrow. “One day at a time, Potter. Not everything has to turn upside down at a moment’s notice.” His gaze drops to the bracelet on his wrist, then rises back to meet Harry’s gaze. “If you would prefer to return to the guest room for the night, I think this link would help us get through on our own,” he says quietly.

It puts control back in Harry’s hands, if he wants it. It seems like the easy choice is yes, go move his things back to the guest room, fall asleep sprawled on his own. But he might wake up with dreams of Malfoy in his mind, and his hand wrapped around his dick. He might _need_ in the middle of the night.

And sleeping with Malfoy wasn’t bad. When he ached, they soothed it. And they fit strangely well, wrapped around each other in the bed. Malfoy was warm, and the bed was comfortable.

Harry’s starting to worry that he _is_ getting attached. That maybe Ron’s right and this is part of the _thing_ he’s always had about watching Malfoy, following him around. Maybe this isn’t entirely something new, even though the _bond_ is different. And he’s not sure how he’s going to feel when they break the bond, when he can walk away and sleep on his own in an empty bed, and be sure that his dreams will be his own.

“Potter?” There’s a question in Malfoy’s voice, an uncertainty that softens the usual clipped tone, and Harry instinctively reaches out to touch him, close the distance and connect with him.

“You’re stuck with me for now,” Harry says. “We’ll sleep better together, and it’ll help charge us up for the long day tomorrow.” And he wants to. He doesn’t _need_ to sleep with Malfoy, but he _wants_ to be that close, and at this point, he isn’t sure if that’s the bond or his own heart talking. He doesn’t want to look too closely at it, doesn’t want to analyse his feelings, because he doesn’t want to know how much this is going to hurt when it’s over.

Malfoy’s hand drops down to rest on Harry’s leg, a light touch as if to remind him that he’s there. “When I’m done with this row, we’ll go to bed.”

As if they are any other couple on any other night, going to _their_ bed, together.

Harry hides his smile, ducking his head and bringing his book up to cover his face. “Whenever you’re ready, Malfoy.” Whether it’s in ten minutes or an hour, he’s fine where he is. He’ll take it one day at a time, and enjoy what he gets, because if he’s falling into this, he’s not ready to know what happens when he hits bottom.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

In the morning, Draco quietly packs two lunches of leftovers from previous dinners, carefully covered with preservation spells for as long as it might take until either of them get to eat. He hopes for it to be busy, and at the same time, he dreads the crowds that might surround him. They will be distracting, yes, and good for the shop, but he can’t imagine feeling the bond itch at him and being unable to deal with it.

They step through the Floo into Strings of Fate, and Draco catches Potter’s hand before he can walk away. Their fingers tangle together automatically, and Potter turns, head tilted.

“We still have fifteen minutes before our shops open,” Draco points out. “And I highly doubt that anyone will be arriving in Hogsmeade this early. They are teenagers, after all, and even the excitement of a day away from Hogwarts is unlike to drag them from their beds at the crack of dawn.”

One corner of Potter’s lip twitches, like he’s trying to hide a smile. “But as shop owners, it is our duty to be in our shops before the moment they open, and to ensure that everything is perfectly pristine.”

“Sod responsibility,” Draco mutters, tugging just enough to pull Potter off-balance, so that he stumbles into him and Draco can catch him against his chest. He sets down his own lunch on the bench, freeing himself to raise both his hands and cradle Potter’s head, nudging a slow, quiet kiss. “I need something, Potter.”

“I’m not sure we have time for a quickie, but I could take it as a challenge.”

“Quiet.” Draco silences him in the best way he knows how, swallowing any words of protest with soft kisses and teasing touches. “Just five minutes, Potter, that’s all I ask.” It curls in his gut how quickly Potter obeys, the way he sinks into Draco’s touch with a small whine of pleasure, a murmur of _more_. Draco suspects that if he asked—if he _ordered_ —Potter would be on his knees, despite the hour being so close to the opening of their shops. He teases at Potter’s lips instead, begs entrance and claims his mouth when it is granted.

They are both breathing hard and Potter’s hair is absolutely untamed when they finally step apart.

“I have to go over to Ollivanders,” Potter says. “George and Ron brought me some things to help brighten up the outside, send up sparks to celebrate the grand opening. I’ll put them between our shops; it’ll attract attention for both of us.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Draco protests because he knows it’s what he should do, but it warms him when Potter ignores his words and says he’ll do it anyway.

And then Potter is gone, and Draco has five minutes to ensure that the till has money for change, and the displays are set. He places the scarf—so close to done—on the table next to the comfortable chair, and he makes himself a cup of tea to sip, and then he sets the sign to open.

He has time to knit three rows before the first person drifts in, a teenage girl on her own, peering through the door and almost stepping back out before Draco gestures and the door opens for her. “You are welcome to come in and take a look around,” he tells her, and she smiles shyly. He places her age at perhaps thirteen, maybe fourteen, and he wonders if he even remembers what it was like to be that age.

Not that he had a normal childhood by any means.

“My friends are at Ollivanders,” she admits, pointing across the way. “Merry’s wand hasn’t been right since she dropped it in the lake, and well,” she lifts one shoulder, “Kirsten has a mad fancy for Harry Potter. Even though he’s old.”

Her blunt statement makes Draco snort inelegantly, and she gives him a surprise look at the sound, then dissolves into giggles.

“I mean, he’s not _old_ like my dad is _old_ , but he’s—” She stops when Draco raises a hand.

“Please, I understand.” He sets the scarf on his chair and rises gesturing for her to follow him to the table where he has the brightly coloured friendship yarn laid out. “We have some samples, made specifically for friendship bracelets, if you might be interested. Our spinner is trying out a new technique, and he claims that the skeins are bonded—if you create two bracelets with the same yarn, you and your friend will wear a minor bond.”

“Is it safe?” she touches the yarn briefly, then picks up a skein, rubbing it against her cheek. “It’s so _soft_ and the colours are beautiful. You have a bracelet; did you give one to a friend?”

“These are on special today,” Draco says, ignoring her question although he distracts her with a friendly smile. “If you purchase anything else in the store, you may choose two colours for free.”

She picks through the skeins, setting aside colours for consideration. “Mama has been on about knitting me a new scarf. I could send her yarn,” she muses.

The bell rings on the door, and Draco leaves the first girl to attend to a small crowd of older teens who come in talking loudly. A pair of professors arrive not long after that, and soon it is simply a never-ending parade of people coming through. 

Draco spends his morning answering questions about the yarn, talking about the particular methods Marcus uses for dying and spinning his yarns, and assuring everyone that this is wizarding fiber, from the beginning to the end, starting with sheep raised by an excellent pureblood family. 

When people leave, he encourages them to stop by Ollivanders if they have any need for a new wand or repair, or to head across the way to Myriad to see what the boutique has to offer. He admires new scarves, jewelry, and even nail varnish applied at Myriad.

It is _exhausting_.

On the other hand, it is also entertaining. He is able to pick out several skeins of yarn for Professor Sprout, who claims to be knitting a jumper for Hagrid—it cleans him out of several colours of _Thick For Her Pleasure_ and he knows he will not be able to see the man wearing the jumper and keep a straight face. The students are encouraged to buy skeins of sock yarn for small projects, cheerfully claiming their friendship yarn at the same time. Draco makes a mental note that the new yarns need _names_ and that perhaps he ought to offer alternatives before Millicent has her way and the friendship bracelet yarn ends up being called something like _Tie Me Down_. 

Of course, it’s the unbreakable yarn that causes him the most amusement and awkward embarrassment, when he happens to pass by two young women toying with the threads wondering if it would solve a _problem_ they’ve experienced. Of course, Draco attempts to offer help.

One of them smiles brightly and explains, “You see, I’ve been practicing my knots, and I am _very_ good at knots. And we want to do this in the Muggle way, not magically—it’s all consenting, I promise, and we’re both of age. But we’ve had problems that every time I get her properly knotted up and suspended, something breaks. Do you think this might help?”

Knotted up and suspended. Draco’s brow furrows as he looks between them, and it strikes him what they mean with enough force to leave him coughing and faintly pink. “I believe you would be better off with a rope that is charmed not to break, rather than yarn. As soft as it is, it will bind uncomfortably if used as single strands. However, if you wish to crochet or knit or braid your bonds, that might work. I will warn you that this yarn is still under development, and I have been warned that it does not cut well at this time, so you will need to use an entire skein in your construction. Do be careful and ensure that your knots can be released quickly in case you need to let her free, since you can’t break the yarn.”

Both girls listen, the smiles fading to serious expressions. They nod, and whisper together, with words like _internet_ and _Google_ flying by Draco’s ears. In the end, they select several skeins and inform him that they can find a pattern and his help was _greatly_ appreciated and really, Sadie is eighteen already in her seventh year, and Janice is simply visiting—she finished at Hogwarts the previous year.

Draco doesn’t really want to know the details, but he wonders if he should tell McGonagall anyway, or if she worries about creative sexual practices within the school walls. In the end, he requests that both allow him to use a quick age detection spell and assures himself that legally, they can do whatever they wish.

He really doesn’t think the afternoon can be much more entertaining than that. From penis cozies to bondage makings: he never knew going into fiber craft was going to be so _entertaining_.

#

The traffic in the shop dwindles as lunch approaches, and the noon hour finds Draco entirely alone within his walls. He takes a low breath, glancing through the door and across to the next shop, wondering if he has time for a quick visit. His fingers trail over the bracelet that wraps around his wrist, a gesture that has become more and more ingrained as the day has gone on. He swears he feels a whisper of response, a comforting moment as he breathes in and out, relaxing.

The familiar itch is quieted, soft and easy under his skin. There is no anxiety, no rushing desperate _need_ , but he can still feel it. The want still rides him, quieted and calm, waiting for later. In these silent moment he finds himself dreaming of kisses rather than blow jobs, of spooning and quiet thrusts rather than the need to pound into Potter and claim him _right now_.

He wonders if the bond is fading. He had thought it might fade within the week, but when he tests it, it seems as strong as ever, just not as needy. Perhaps it is changing over time.

Whatever it is doing, it is very much still _there_.

He summons his meal and eats while sitting in the comfortable chair, then takes a few moments to finish the final rows of the scarf and carefully bind it off. It takes him three tries to start those final stitches and find the right tension before he’s satisfied. Once it’s done, he sets it aside and brings out the latest book he was reading on bonds, and begins a series of diagnostic spells that only serve to show him the same things he has seen before between himself and Potter.

The bell on the door rings, and he sets aside his wand as he rises.

“Draco,” Luna says cheerily. “I had hoped you would be here.”

“It’s my shop,” he reminds her. “Where else would I be?”

“With Harry.” She moves past him, taking off gloves that she can’t need as it’s not that cold out, tucking them into her pocket. As soon as her fingers are free, she touches the yarn with the familiarity of someone used to fiber craft. “I thought perhaps Millicent might be here, or Marcus. I wanted to talk to him about the new yarn for jumpers, the one that’s squeezing too much. I have someone who needs a jumper just like that.” Her smile widens gently. “He needs a hug.”

“I have some of it right over here, if you’d like to try working with it.” He wants to be all business, but there’s a part of him that wonders why she’s so easily accepted what lies between himself and Potter. “And I can’t visit Potter today, nor can he come here. It’s our official first opening days; we need to be in our shops.”

“Of course. You’ll go home with him later.” She lifts the yarn, undoes a bit of the skein and runs her fingers over it as she twists it together, tries to see how it might knit up. “I’ll take eight skeins of it. Let me just pick the best colours.” She begins idly sifting through the pile, each skein that she chooses completely unique. She sends each one to the counter with a careful spell, and when she’s done with her pile, she blinks at Draco. “How is your own knitting coming, Draco?”

It’s a surprise to realise how proud he is of the scarf that he’s finished, only just neatly tied off and ends woven in. He gathers it up from the chair and holds it out, feels the way it licks at his fingers as if he can feel it purring in response to his touch. “I’ve just finished my first project. Made with _Kiss My Toes_.” At her solemn blink, he adds, “It’s the name of the yarn.”

“I know.” She reaches for the scarf and he spills it into her hands, nerves twisting in his gut when she lifts it to her face, rubs it along her cheek with a sigh. “It really is beautiful, Draco. Wonderful colours, and so soft. I can imagine that you’ll never feel lonely with this about your neck.”

“I was actually thinking that it might be perfect for you.” Now that he sees it in her hands, the resolve to gift it to her returns. It is the perfect length, and the chaos of colours looks bright against her skin. He takes it from her long enough to loop it around the back of her neck, then wind one end over her shoulder. “I should warn you, the yarn gets jealous. It will expect to be your favourite, and worn more often than any other. You may also find that it is rather… affectionate.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem. Thank you, Draco, this is terribly sweet.” Luna tilts her head, sighing as the scarf nuzzles in close. “I promise that if anyone asks, I shall most definitely tell them that the yarn came from you.”

Draco bristles, his back going taut. “It’s not about the advertising, Luna.”

“I know.” Her smile is soft and gentle. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t send people to you. We shop owners must stick together, Draco. Thank you for sending people across all morning. It’s been wonderfully busy. Thankfully there are four of us to handle the customers. You must be terribly swamped with only one of you.”

“It’s been busy until now, but not untenable.” He gestures at the chair. “I’ve some time to sit before the post lunch rush begins.”

“Are you certain you don’t wish to go see Harry. I could watch the shop for you,” Luna offers, eyeing the chair thoughtfully. “I could begin work on my jumper; I’d like to finish it quickly, for Dudley. Have you met him yet? He’ll be there on Sunday, at the Weasleys, and you can meet him then if you haven’t already.”

Draco is quiet a moment, seeking out the bond under his skin, idly touching the bracelet one more time. It thrums in time with the rush of his blood, but otherwise he feels stable, the bond there, tight and warm, but not aching. “I’m fine, Luna, and I think I’d rather use the quiet time to continue my research.” A nod to the book that waits for him, his page marked. “And I haven’t the faintest idea who Dudley is.”

Luna walks around the chair so she can pick up the book, leafing through the pages, head tilted as she skims the words. “Dudley is Harry’s cousin,” she says. “He’s very good in bed, and treats me wonderfully. He’s not afraid of magic anymore, but he is still wary—he was almost taken by a Dementor once, Draco—so do be kind to him. Now that he and Harry get on well, you’ll want him on your good side.”

Draco can’t think why it matters what Dudley thinks of him; once the bond is broken, he assumes that Potter will happily go his own way. This is, after all, manufactured affection on his part. “I see. I shall be certain to ingratiate myself, then.”

“I don’t think you need to worry.” Luna looks up from the words she is reading to offer a gentle smile. “No one hates you, Draco. They all understand your place in Harry’s life.”

“And what is that?” Draco asks, his tone far sharper than he intends. There’s heat rising under his skin as he thinks about Potter, his body tight, and _now_ the bond bothers him, making him anxious. His gaze flicks to the wall separating his shop from the one next door; perhaps he ought to take Luna up on her offer. Just for a few minutes.

Then he remembers how busy it has been, how many children have been in the shop.

Perhaps now is not the best of times.

“How is your research into the bond going, Draco?” Luna pages through the latter half of the book, into chapters which Draco hasn’t had the chance to read yet. Not that it matters; he is beginning to suspect that he already has all the information he needs; the question is simply what to do with it.

He presses his lips together, sinks down to sit on the edge of the chair. “I can see the bond between us,” he confesses quietly. “And please, I haven’t told Potter yet, because seeing it is no solution, and he expects an end to this. But there is a weave between us that I can see when I use the proper diagnostics, tangled around us quite thoroughly and tightly. It draws us together, and there are times when it is as if one of us plucks the strings, the other feels the vibration.” He can feel it now, the thrumming getting louder, and he lays his hand over his wrist, toying with the bracelet in response.

Luna nods as he speaks, carefully placing the book back on the table. “Of course you are woven together,” she tells him. “You always have been, haven’t you?”

His brows furrow in a deep frown. “We’ve always danced around each other in our own way, yes, but not like this. The bond emanates from my own magic, tied to my core and to my wand, and then it tangles around Potter, drawing him in. It is as if my wand has trapped him.”

“Through no fault of your own,” Luna assures him. “You have always been tangled, Draco. It’s been there for anyone who cared to look, the way the fates wove around you both. It’s just that your magic is involved now, and that makes the ties stronger. And apparently uncomfortable for the two of you.”

“You could say that.” It’s one way to put it. It is awkward, and occasionally painful, but Draco can’t entirely say it is _uncomfortable_. If anything, it might be too comfortable. It is too easy to exist with Potter in his life, and in his home and bed. Far too easy to see him settling in as if he has always been there, and to wonder if he might stay.

“I think you might be looking at this the wrong way.” Luna breezes by him, pausing at the array of knitting needles to find some that suit her plans. “After all, you and Harry have always been woven together. This is just a change. Perhaps it isn’t that you need to unweave the bond; perhaps you just need to change it to make it right.” She selects two pairs of needles, carries them to the counter. “Perhaps you need to find the right pattern, Draco.”

The slow burning thrum under his skin becomes an abrupt flame, his skin heating, cheeks going rose with a bright flush. He feels his breath go tight, his prick erect and tight in his trousers. “I…”

This is not the time nor the place, and he can’t _get_ to Potter. Not now.

Luna looks at him curiously. “Is something the matter?”

Yes. No. _Yes_. Draco opens his mouth, then closes it quickly, biting back a groan. “I’ll just be a moment,” he whispers, unable to raise his voice more than that, his throat tight. He rushes past her, through the back room and into the loo, locking the door behind him. In the distance, he hears the bell on his door ring, and Luna’s voice sings out _welcome to Strings of Fate_ , but he can’t think about that now.

All he can think is that he’s close to orgasm and he hasn’t even touched his prick.

He manages to get his fly down and his prick out, wrapping his fingers tight around it. He touches the bracelet on his wrist, and his eyes roll back in his head as he groans loudly. “ _Oh fuck_.” It only takes two quick strokes and he’s spurting over his hand, thick and sticky and _oh fuck_ it feels as good as if Potter himself were touching him.

Draco has no idea what just happened, but it was _good_ and _bad_ and he has to wrap his head around being able to breathe normally again so he can go back out. But for the moment, all he has the energy to do is lean against the sink and remember how to breathe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

By ten minutes into the day, Harry is thankful that Ron and Hermione are both there to help him out. Even though he’s been open for days, and everything is carefully stocked and ready, Harry really wasn’t prepared for this sort of a rush. He knows it’s the excitement of a Hogsmeade weekend, and the curiosity of seeing the Saviour in a wand shop, but it’s still overwhelming.

Hermione takes care of those who just want to see the wands, to touch one that has been crafted by the Saviour himself. He hears a constant stream of giggles and she summons box after box, carefully describing exactly what wand it is, the length, the core. He knows that the students are touching the wands, and that perhaps they shouldn’t do that, but Harry isn’t Ollivander and he doesn’t want wands to be something esoteric. Yes, wandcraft is a specialised art, but wands shouldn’t be a mystery. He wants them to be a tool, something a child becomes comfortable with and even understands _why_ it works for them. He wants them to be able to work better with wands than they could before.

Harry sits on a stool by the counter, a knife in one hand, wood in the other, carving carefully. He has different kinds of woods, each one partially stripped and carved, the wands just beginning to take shape. He never knows exactly how a wand will turn out until he lets his mind drift while he works, the knife releasing the wand from the depths of the twig he uses. Now, though, he carves for show rather than purpose, with twigs of hawthorn and cherry and birch each laid out on the table. He has a piece of mahogany in his hand, and he twists it, adding a bit of a spiral to the tip, while three boys and a girl lean in as close as he’ll let them come, perfectly attentive. 

“Can you tell me anything about mahogany?” he asks, one eye on where Ron has tiny wandlets that Harry made earlier—not exactly wands, but carefully charmed to show the properties of many of the different woods. Ron has a circle of children around him, and he shares the wandlets about, letting them try them to see what they are like.

The girl reaches one finger out, pausing until Harry nods to let her touch the tip of the mahogany that he is working with. “My father said mahogany is the wand for witches who don’t know what they want to do,” she says firmly. “It doesn’t have a leaning, like Charms or Divination. My sister Patricia has a mahogany wand, and she’s seventeen and doesn’t know what she wants to do when she’s done with her NEWTs. My father says that anyone with a mahogany wand is probably just too lazy to bond with a better wood.”

“That’s rude, Sammy,” one of the boys points out, and she raises one shoulder and lowers it lazily.

“Just because you don’t know anything about wands, Parker,” she tells him. “ _My_ wand is chestnut with a dragon heartstring, and it’s terribly powerful and strong.”

“Mahogany is weak,” one of the other boys says. “I wouldn’t want a mahogany wand.”

“As a wandmaker, I love working with mahogany,” Harry says quickly, before they can continue to go down the road of insulting anyone who might have a mahogany wand. “It’s mutable. Flexible. Mahogany has no inherent leanings, so it takes on the strengths of the wizard or witch who uses it, and it’s influenced by the core that’s used. It’s one of the best woods for taking on multiple cores in combination, allowing for a general core and a hint of something else to nudge it in a particular direction.”

“What core will you use for that one?” Porter asks.

“Haven’t decided yet, although the shape makes me think it will start with a unicorn hair,” Harry muses, shaving off a little more wood, shaping it carefully. “I might combine that with Boomslang venom—the unicorn hair will help smooth over the temperament, and it would be a good wand for Transfiguration. The wand itself is likely to be fairly inflexible, not an easy wand for a beginner to use, so someone would need to be quite powerful in order to wield it properly, particularly at a young age.” He sets the wood down on the counter, looks at the four children who are listening intently. “Does that sounds like a weak wand?”

Sammy shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know what kind of core Patricia has,” she says quietly. “But her wand is very stiff. Almost rigid.”

“Those are the hardest wands to learn to use,” Harry tells her. “If she’s doing well in her studies, then she’s quite good at what she does. Don’t worry; she’ll find her direction eventually. We don’t always end up where we think we’re going to be when we’re little. Sometimes it takes time to find the right path.”

They nod soberly before thanking him and darting off to gather together with another group and move out en masse.

It’s late and Harry aches from sitting and carving for so long. He closes his knife and sends it to the backroom, safe from prying hands, then gathers up the wood samples neatly. There is nothing inherently magical about these half-carved wands, but he would still rather keep them away from prying fingers. One or two of them might yet become an excellent wand. He definitely has high hopes for the mahogany and perhaps the birch.

“Harry, you need to eat.” Hermione comes up behind him, one hand on his back. Ron glances over, nods once as if to say _she’s right, mate_ , then goes back to talking to a teenager who is asking questions about the wandlets he has.

“I can eat later.” _Food_ is not Harry’s top priority. Now that he’s stopped talking, and the crowd has thinned out, he’s thinking about Malfoy. More specifically, he’s thinking about Malfoy’s hands, about what it would feel like if those long, slender fingers were wrapped around his wrist rather than a bracelet. Harry bites his lip, glances at the door. “It’s quieting down a bit. I think I might just head over and see—”

“That’s code, Hermione!” Ron calls out, and Harry finds himself being nudged roughly into the back room by Hermione.

She sits him down in a chair and the table slides in front of him, the containers that Malfoy packed for lunch quickly following. “It’s not a good time to go _visit_ Malfoy,” Hermione tells him, and he knows she doesn’t mean _visit_ and mentally translates it to _fuck_. “Does the bond hurt right now?”

Does it hurt? Not really. It’s more of a buzzing, a light sensation on his arm like Malfoy keeps touching him, reminding him that he’s there. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it makes Harry want more. The kind of _more_ that he could get in the back room of Strings of Fate, he’s thinking. But Hermione doesn’t want to hear all that, so he tries to keep the answer simple, “No, but—”

“Sh.” She touches his lips, points to the food. “Eat, Harry. Everyone’s heading out for lunch, and I’ll bring something out front for Ron and I to snack on while we cover the shop for you. This is probably the only time you’re going to get to relax all day, so you ought to make sure you take your time with lunch. Enjoy it, Harry. _Relax._ ”

“I’d relax better if I saw Malfoy.” He manages to get the words out before she shushes him again. 

“There are kids in Hogsmeade.” Her expression is serious, her arms crossed. This is the Hermione that he’s always known, the one ready and willing to launch into a lecture about his behaviour if he doesn’t back down. “You can’t simply _do_ that in front of them. I know the bond makes you…” she hesitates, searching for words, and Harry is _not_ going to help with this part. “It makes you _want_ things, but Ron said you were just a few seconds shy of moving from snogging to shagging when he saw you. If it doesn’t hurt, then maybe now isn’t the right time. What if there are people in his shop?” 

She has a point. It’s busier in Hogsmeade—and in their shops—than it’s been all week, which means the chance is high that he might get caught on his knees, or have to pretend no one notices how hard he is after a snog. So he smiles and picks up his fork when she points, takes a bite to prove that _yes_ , he’s eating, before she’s willing to leave him alone in the back room.

And while he thinks a quick, hard snogging sensation might ease the ache that’s beginning to grow, Hermione’s stubborn and she’s somewhat right, so he’s stuck here. At least he’s on his own for a bit.

He rubs at his wrist, twists the bracelet and feels as if it strokes him in return. The touch goes straight to his groin, and he swallows hard, trying to bury the rising lust and ignore it.

But he can’t simply push it away. He touches the bracelet between bites, twists it around his wrist, feels the slide of yarn against his skin and imagines it as Malfoy’s fingers instead. By the time he’s done, his cock is thick and aching, tight in his too-confining pants. He needs to deal with this before he can walk back onto the floor of his shop.

His gaze darts to the loo, but he hesitates before going in. This isn’t right. There are people out front. Ron and Hermione are here, and there are still customers, and Harry can’t just nip into the loo for a quick wank.

On the other hand, he can’t _not_ do it, not if he wants to be decent in front of other folks.

He carefully gathers up the containers and closes them, puts them away while walking awkwardly, and tries to will his erection down. He realises that he’s still touching the bracelet, as if it’s keeping him close to Malfoy, and he’s just as hard as he was when lunch ended.

He needs to do something about it, and he needs to do it _now_.

Harry walks as quietly as he can into the loo and tugs the door shut slowly behind himself. He twists the handle and sets the Muggle lock, then adds a locking spell and layers two privacy spells on top of that. This is absolutely inappropriate timing, but he can _try_ to make it less obvious that he’s having himself a quick wank.

He undoes the fly of his trousers and shoves both them and his pants down to his knees, leans his bare arse back against the cold, ceramic edge of the sink. The chill grounds him, reminds him where he is even while he takes hold of his cock. He wraps his fingers around it, slides slowly from the root to the tip, rolling over the head and closes his eyes.

It doesn’t feel the same. It doesn’t feel like _Malfoy_.

With a low whine of frustration, he stops. His cock juts out, thick and red and hard, and he knows that if he touches it, it’s not going to be a satisfying orgasm. He needs Malfoy.

There’s a phantom touch against his wrist, and he looks down, gaze dropping to the bracelet.

He quickly wrestles it off, slipping it over his hand, then transfigures it to be long and narrow, a perfect, soft fit for his prick. As he wraps it around his heated skin, he sighs at the touch, bond easing as it senses Malfoy in the thread.

He keeps his grip tight, but the fibers are soft, gliding over his skin as he tugs at his cock. He leans back, eyes closed again, thinking of Malfoy on his knees, mouth wrapped around his dick, fingers toying with Harry’s balls and his arse. He whimpers, hips pressing forward, hand moving more quickly. In his mind’s eye, Malfoy pulls off, wanks Harry roughly until he spurts, coming in thick ropes across Malfoy’s face.

He groans when the orgasm comes, quickly moving the transfigured braid out of the way, letting the sticky fluid hit the floor before he vanishes it. His body feels loose and easy, relaxed again and ready for the afternoon. Once Harry cleans himself up, he transfigures the cloth back into a braid and wraps it around his wrist, sealing it in place. He closes his eyes then, and just lets himself float, sinking back into a quiet fantasy of slow snogs and gentle touches, the way they lie together in bed and rest.

#

When Harry finally emerges from the back room, Lavender is sitting on the counter, legs crossed and skirt carefully covering just enough leg. She waves when she sees him, and Ron looks over, gaze narrowing. 

“You okay, mate?” Ron asks, and Harry wonders if they can somehow see the fact that he just got himself off in the loo. Is it written on his face? Is he red? Did he miss cleaning up a spot?

“Hermione’s gone down the street to pick up our lunch,” Lavender offers. “Parvati’s paying. We had a bet about what the best selling lip gloss would be for the first half of the day, and she lost. Surprisingly, Hermione won.”

“Just because she doesn’t always _wear_ makeup doesn’t mean she doesn’t pay attention to what works,” Ron says quickly, defending his girlfriend. “Besides, that’s her favourite colour and it tastes good. It appeals to everyone.”

“The big surprise is that Luna’s Plum Passion was the second best seller, only just barely behind the one Hermione chose. Luna claims plums are popular this season.” Lavender’s heels thud lightly against the cabinetry, and Harry realises that her feet are bare, high heels abandoned on the floor. She wiggles her toes when she sees him looking, dark bruised purple colouring her nails. “Plumple,” she says. “Weird name for a nail varnish, but also incredibly popular. Supposedly it revitalizes nails and helps them grow. Which I don’t really need for my toes, but Luna has a point, it _is_ pretty.”

“Of course I’m right.” Luna comes through the door, propped open to keep a breeze flowing while the shop was crowded earlier. She closes it carefully behind her now, sealing the chill air outside. “How are you doing today, Harry? It seemed quite busy earlier, that’s why I went to visit Draco first.” She lifts the canvas bag she carries. “I also bought some yarn to knit Dudley a hug.”

Harry wants to ask exactly how you knit someone a hug, but he’s not sure he needs to hear the reasoning. And he’s not going to argue that his cousin could use some more affection in his life. As spoiled as he was growing up, Dudley never did really learn how to physically express himself in any _good_ ways. If Luna’s teaching him how to hug, that has to be a handy side effect to them dating.

“How’s Malfoy’s business going?” Ron asks like it’s just words, being polite about a neighbour, but he also glances at Harry when he does. Harry bites his tongue because he is _not_ going to ask how _Malfoy_ is.

He could always just go over and find out for himself, except that he sees two older boys step pass by his own store, approaching Strings of Fate, which means Malfoy is busy.

Pity.

“It looked like he had a steady set of folks going through,” Lavender replies, head tilted as she watches the flow of people on the street through the windows. “We had several people say they’d either just come from there or were going there.”

“He said it’s been a good day, although it’s just him working in the shop. I’d rather expected Millicent or Marcus to be there for the first day. And he gave me this.” Luna proudly shows off the scarf around her neck, and Harry recognizes Malfoy’s first project. “I think he’s doing well now, although it was a bit rushed there for a moment.”

“You were the only one in the shop,” Ron points out.

Luna lifts her shoulders in a slow shrug. “I was just about to pay when he darted off, said it would be _just one moment_ and he ran into the back. I suppose he needed the loo, although he didn’t sound very good. I hope he’s well. He seemed fine when he returned, if a bit flushed.”

Harry’s fingers fall to the bracelet about his wrist. “Was this just now? Perhaps I ought to go check on him.”

He can feel the weight of their gazes as all three stare at him. Lavender’s smirking, Luna’s head cocks curiously, and Ron looks vaguely pained.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Ron says carefully. “The day’ll be over soon enough, and you can er… _check on him_ then.”

Through the windows he sees a large group of girls approaching the end of the road. Two split off and head towards Myriad, and the rest head towards Strings of Fate. Harry sighs, running his finger over the ridges of the braid. “You’re right. I’ll see him after work.”

Lavender hops off the counter, pads to the door just in time to open it before Hermione can nudge it with her foot. Two young women trail in after Hermione, looking around, and Harry excuses himself to help them out while his friends manage to eat, Hermione explaining that she’s already left food across the way with Parvati and Padma.

“Is everything all set for Sunday?” Hermione calls out once the women have left, and Harry winces. 

“I talked to Malfoy about it,” he says. “Obviously he has to go, although I’m not sure he’s excited about it.”

“Maybe you ought to invite some of his other friends,” Luna suggests. She raises her fork, gestures between the five of them. “Obviously he’ll have us there, but he might like it if Millicent and Greg were there, or perhaps Marcus. And I’d absolutely love to talk to Marcus about some of his technique. I’ve been wondering if he’s tried sheering the ghost sheep yet and incorporating their wool into his strands.”

“Ghost sheep?”

Luna smiles at Lavender. “Not actual ghosts; they’re quite alive, just terribly difficult to see. From what I understand, the magical properties of their wool can render a garment invisible, although it’s terribly difficult to work with fibers that you can’t see while knitting.”

Ron nudges Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll get in touch with them,” he says quietly. “If you think it’d be easier to get Malfoy there if his friends are there, then I’ll manage it for you, mate. Mum won’t mind as long as she’s got her whole family around. You know there’s always room for one or two more, or even a half dozen. I think Gin said she’s bringing Dean and Seamus, and George will have Angelina there, and Charlie’s coming in. With Seamus and Charlie both there, that means Lavender and Parvati, which means Padma. And Luna’s already going to be there with Dudley. It’s just a big night, with a bonfire, and plenty of food. Mum won’t mind.”

It feels a little like calling Malfoy _family_ to bring his friends along to the Weasleys. And Harry wonders how everyone will fit in, then realises that they _would_ fit in just fine. He imagines that Millicent’s sharp words and brutal humor would match nicely with George and Arthur, while scandalizing Molly completely. And he can easily see Goyle and Luna talking for hours; he knows Goyle’s not as much of an idiot as he pretended to be sometimes. And of course, Flint’s got Quidditch to talk about, and Harry suspects the Weasleys might even manage to start up a game if anyone remembers to do it before the drinking starts.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good, and if you do it, then it’s coming from the folks hosting, not from me. Thanks, Ron. I know Malfoy’ll like knowing that some of his mates will be there, too.”

“We’re his mates,” Luna reminds him, and Harry puts his arm around her, pulls her into a hug.

“Apparently, yes we are.” Because once Luna’s decided on something, nothing’s going to change her mind.

#

The remainder of the day drags on, despite the constant flow of traffic through the shop. By the end of it, Harry has three wands stashed in the back room for later evaluation and repair, and he has sold four new wands, two of which were his own creations. The young girl Sammy came back during the afternoon without her friends and asked _exactly_ how much it might be for her to _commission_ the mahogany wand that he’d begun, and _exactly_ as he described it, because she is absolutely _brilliant_ at Transfiguration—all Os of course—and she would really like to purchase it. Harry’s fairly certain that the girl is all of thirteen years old, so he hands her an official Ollivanders note card and asks her to write a letter to her parents. He adds on his own bit about the work he’s doing and what he thinks the wand might cost and when it would be done, then they send it off.

Before she goes, Harry hands her the mahogany, watches the way it settles into her fingers even without a core yet, and he knows she’s on the right path to finding the perfect wand. It’s rare that a commission turns into a perfect match, but in this case, the wood alone has chosen its witch, and she leaves with a cheerful smile and a superior smirk.

It pleases him to know that he’s changed someone’s attitude towards a wand wood, that he’s taught someone that it isn’t the wand that is weak, that it’s how it’s used.

At the end of the day, Hermione ushers the last curious student out of the store and locks the door behind them, while Ron cleans up the scattered bits of wood and nascent wands from around the store. It looks a little like a hurricane’s been through, with boxes everywhere after Ramón García went through sixty-two options before finally finding the wand that shot the proper amount of sparks without nearly setting the place on fire.

Harry flicks his wand and the boxes open, wands dancing into their appropriate homes, then the boxes flying up to slot themselves onto the shelves. Ron ducks when one flies by closer than he’d like, and Hermione wisely stays out of the way.

It’s a relief when everything’s set back to rights, and Harry realises that the day is completely done.

He leans against the window, looking next door, unable to see the door from this angle, and wonder if Malfoy’s already hung the closed sign out. When he turns back, both Hermione and Ron are looking at him. Ron shrugs, as if to say _well if you must_ , and Hermione looks fond, a small smile tilting her lips.

“Do you need more of your things?” she asks quietly. “It doesn’t seem like you’ll be coming home any time soon.”

He wants to correct her assumption, but the truth is, Harry doesn’t want to come home. It gets easier and easier to just fall into the bond, enjoy the time with Malfoy as it passes, even though he knows that this quiet easy time will pass soon enough. His tongue flicks out, wets his lips, and he tries to find the right words. “We’re giving it a week,” he says finally. “Malfoy thinks it’ll fade, even if we don’t find a way to undo it, and in the meantime, it’s not all that bad. He’s a good cook, and a good host, and Ron brought enough for me to make it through the weekend. Maybe we’ll stop back at the flat after we leave the Burrow on Sunday.”

It’s all too easy to think about staying at Malfoy’s place indefinitely, and Harry is loathe to think about when he has to move out. Hermione merely nods like he’s given exactly the answer she expects, surging forward to capture him in a hug, then kiss his cheeks soundly.

“Much easier to keep an eye on him, mate, when you’re living with him,” Ron says, taking his own turn for a quick, back-slapping hug.

Hermione swats at Ron’s shoulder. “Ignore him,” she tells Harry. “You go on and go home, figure this out. We’ll see you tomorrow evening at the Burrow.”

He should say he’ll be home soon, that he’ll be moving back into the flat to bother them again, and not to get used to being alone. But Harry thinks that Ron and Hermione probably don’t mind that he’s gone, and he’s actually happy where he is. So he lets it go, just nods in reply and ushers them out the door, locking it securely so that he can head over to Strings of Fate and go home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

It no longer feels like an imposition to have Potter in his flat.

In fact, Draco watches Potter move through his space as if he belongs there, comfortable even after only a few days. Potter sets the table without Draco asking, each utensil in its place, and brings out the wine glasses when Draco summons a bottle of red. It surprises Draco that Potter knows to remove the cork and let it breathe, setting the wine on the table closest to Draco’s seat, so he can taste it when it’s done.

“I feel as if we’re eating a themed meal,” Potter points out when it’s on the table, and Draco’s brow furrows.

“I’m sorry?” He sinks into his chair, pulls the platter closer so that he can carve the lamb. It’s perfectly cooked, pink on the inside with a faint ring around the outer edges to show the smoke, and crusted with fragrant herbs. He takes off the end, and offers it to Potter, vaguely pleased when Potter refuses and Draco is able to take the crusted edge for himself. He slices the next and places it on Potter’s plate.

“Lamb,” Potter points out, ladling potatoes first onto Draco’s plate, then his own. “As in, sheep, and wool. And you’ve smoked it with applewood, if I’m not mistaken, and maybe a hint of cherry, and rosemary’s woodsy as well.” He gestures from the lamb to the kitchen. “Wool and wood.” His features pinch slightly, and Draco recognizes embarrassment even as Potter pushes on with the analogy, fingers moving to gesture between them. “You and me.”

“I see it.” One corner of Draco’s mouth tilts, and he looks at the wine rather than at Potter. He can feel the way Potter relaxes, can sense the relief. Draco pours a glass and takes a sip, approving it before he pours a second glass for Potter. “It was unplanned, however.”

“Much like we were unplanned,” Potter says dryly, and Draco has to laugh.

Although there is no _we_ , not in the manner of a couple. There is a bond, and a strange level of comfort, and the way it feels when Potter stretches his leg under the table and knocks against Draco’s calf, then leans there to keep contact.

There is, indeed, _that_.

Draco cuts his lamb into bite size pieces, even though it’s terrible table manners, then summons the book he had marked to read next in his research. When Potter looks up, Draco summons a book for him as well, landing it neatly on the table by his right elbow.

“Is that a hint?” Potter finds his bookmark and lays it open, gaze skimming over the page. “You don’t want me to ask you about your day, _dear_?”

“Busy, filled with children, and do you know, I had to coach two women—who were of age, but still seemed far too young—through the concept of why one shouldn’t use unbreakable yarn for bondage.” Draco manages to keep his voice completely deadpan as he recounts the scene, even when Potter stops eating with a cough. Draco raises one eyebrow. “Can you imagine the fibers I sell being used for something so… sexual?”

Potter’s face is bright, flaming red. “Er. Well. We’ve echoed the bond with…” His voice drops out as he nods at Draco’s wrist, and Draco finds himself touching the bracelet once again. He can’t count the number of times he’s done it that day, but this is the first time that he can watch Potter as he does so, see the way he shivers slightly, his own fingers dropping to trace the braid as well.

“It’s not the same as if I were to tie you up with it,” Draco says quietly, curious at Potter’s reaction. “If I were to wrap it around your wrists, keep them close together and above your head, bound to the headboard or perhaps the wall.”

Potter’s gaze drops, the fork tapping against his plate. His foot presses closer to Draco even as he refuses to look at him. “No,” Potter tells the table. “It’s not the same at all.”

“I’m making you uncomfortable.” As fun as it is to push Potter, Draco can feel the discomfort rolling off of him, and it twists in his stomach, making him feel vaguely ill. He swears he feels arousal as well, but perhaps that’s just because his own prick has filled at the image of Potter stretched out on the bed, bound and tied, waiting for his pleasure. Draco doesn’t know how to unwind the sensations, figure out which is himself and which is Potter, so he lets the subject go.

Instead he opens his own book to the chapter on patterns of magic, and begins to quietly read as he eats a piece of potato.

It’s a long moment before Potter shifts in his seat, one hand in his lap for just a brief touch before he reaches for the book. Potter eats with small bites, absorbed by the book, brows knit together as he focuses on the words. Draco moves his foot, lightly strokes along Potter’s calf, and Potter presses back into him, tension leaching from his shoulders.

By the time they are done, Draco is awash in domestic bliss tinged with a faint haze of arousal. He reaches out before he thinks, his fingers brushing across the back of Potter’s hand where it curls around the pages of the book he reads. Potter glances up, peering out from under his messy fringe and over the edge of his glasses, and for a brief moment, Draco _wants_. He wants to push the fringe back so he can see Potter’s eyes properly, he wants to lean in to steal a kiss. He wants to adjourn to the bedroom and wrap himself around Potter’s body and bring that bright flush back, until Potter comes completely undone.

Potter licks his lips and Draco almost tells him to go down the hall and wait for him. He swallows the words, and pulls his hand back. “I’m going to put away the leftovers for lunch tomorrow,” Draco says. “You can go read on the couch.”

“Monday.” Potter smiles slightly at Draco’s confused expression. “Trust me, you don’t want to eat a big lunch tomorrow. We ought to take something light for tomorrow’s lunch, just enough to get through, because Molly will have prepared enough for an army.”

Considering that it seems is if they have now invited an entire army, Draco hopes that Molly Weasley truly does make as much food as Potter seems to think. Draco has seen Marcus and Greg eat, and it isn’t always a pretty sight. Then again, she raised Potter’s best mate, and Draco feels certain that Ron Weasley could keep up with Gregory Goyle in any contest involving food.

He simply nods and withdraws from the table, somehow unsurprised when Potter follows him into the kitchen, bringing the dirty dishes to the sink and silently beginning to wash up. They work side by side until Draco has the leftovers packed for later in the week, and two smaller lunches of quick finger foods packed for the next day.

They move to the couch, Draco with his knitting and Potter forgoing research for the latest issue of _Quidditch Down Under_. Draco sits first, all the way in one corner, leaving plenty of space for Potter, and yet he is gratified when Potter sits next to him, the warmth of his hip pressing right up against Draco.

They sit in companionable silence, broken only by the shift of a body upon the couch, or the rustle of pages turning and needles clacking. Potter turns eventually, stretching out along the couch with his feet propped on the opposite armrest, his head pillowed on Draco’s thigh.

He aches with want now, and he sees the faint smile lingering in Potter’s expression, knows that he _knows_ it. Draco wonders which of them will break first, who will _ask_ for what they need.

The bond doesn’t ride him. It doesn’t make him shiver and shake, it simply simmers underneath his skin, pricking at his senses. When Potter reaches over his head to slide a hand up Draco’s side without looking, the bond eases, and Potter sighs at the sensation as well.

Draco inhales tightly, lets it out slowly as he works another row of his hat. The pattern of the stitches is soothing, and he sees now why so many people find peace in knitting. The way the stitches fall into rows is monotonous, but it also builds on itself, each row creating something that grows from chaos into a visible pattern under his fingertips. He finds himself thinking about the book he was reading, and about what he can see of the weave that wraps around himself and Potter, and there is something there, just outside the reaches of his conscious mind. He sets down the hat, grabs his wand and brings up divining spells, not saying a word when Potter tilts his head back to look at him, expression curious.

He can’t quite get there, can’t make the connection that his subconscious is struggling to find. He’s close, but it’s still just out of reach. He runs his fingers across the weave for a moment, lets his fingertips dance along the pattern that he sees. He can’t feel the way it tugs on his own core, the way he thinks he _should_ be able to feel it. He bites his lip and shakes his head, letting the spell drop away so that all is left is the residual sensation of the bond beneath his skin, rather than the visual imagery.

“What?” Potter asks, and Draco shrugs one shoulder, his hand coming to rest on Potter’s chest, fingers splayed.

“I don’t know yet,” he admits, and he feels muscles tense under his touch. “I think I might have found an avenue that I need to investigate for breaking the bond, but I haven’t quite figured out what about it is correct, or how to get to the resolution.”

“I see.” Potter’s gaze is shuttered, then his eyes close as he breathes in, seems to hold it for a long moment before consciously letting it slip loose, relaxing slowly. “It doesn’t need to be broken tonight,” he says quietly. “Right?”

Something twists low and tight in Draco’s gut, spinning out into the warmth of arousal. He’s sure Potter’s aware, either through the bond or due to the fact that Draco’s prick is slowly hardening right where Potter’s head is resting. He does his best to keep a straight face, lets one eyebrow slowly rise. “There’s no reason I can think of that it needs to be broken immediately,” he agrees. “We both seem to be functioning well within the confines of the bond thus far.”

Potter’s chest rises and falls, breathing out another round of tension. Draco curls his fingers, which just barely rucks up Potter’s shirt, exposing a thin strip of skin between shirt and trousers. Draco could reach just a little further, lean enough to tug the hem of the shirt up and brush his fingers there, let them drift over skin. It’s tempting.

Potter swings one arm out, dropping his magazine inelegantly on the coffee table. “We should go to bed,” he says, voice low and cautious. “I… it’s late.”

It’s not that late. And while Draco wants to lick that strip of skin (and probably lower), he also wants to stretch out next to Potter, wrap his arms around him and nuzzle in close to his throat. He wants to kiss him, to mark his skin so that everyone knows that he belongs to Draco.

And the more he thinks about the possibility of breaking the bond, the more he wants to bite, suck, nip until marks dot all over Potter’s dark skin.

The more he wants to _claim_ him.

He is so, so screwed.

Potter’s expression closes off again, and Draco realizes that he’s been silent for far too long. “Yes,” Draco murmurs. He brings his hand up to cradle Potter’s face, run his thumb over the seam of his lips. “Go get ready for bed. I’ll be in shortly, as soon as I’ve taken care of a few things.”

Draco is fairly certain it isn’t entirely _necessary_ for Potter to place his hand directly over the hard ridge of Draco’s prick, to press down and run his hand along it as he leverages himself to sitting up. But Potter’s expression is entirely innocent when he looks back, and Draco doesn’t mention it. “I won’t be long,” he assures Potter, and only then is Potter willing to walk down the hall without looking back.

#

Draco undresses, going to bed clad only in pants. The lights are already out before he enters the room and slips beneath the covers, and Potter spoons close, wrapping an arm around his waist. In the dark, it is easy to be affectionate, to bring one of Potter’s hands up to his lips, kiss the fingertips before sucking one into his mouth and teasing it briefly. There’s a low sound behind him, and lips against the nape of his neck, pressing light kisses until Draco reaches back, slides his hand over Potter’s pants-covered arse and squeezes gently.

“Did you need something, Potter?” Draco asks, keeping his tone light but firm, couched as an order between friends.

He feels the brush of Potter’s hair against his skin when he shakes his head. “I don’t need something, no.”

Draco takes apart the words, tastes them in his mind and weighs each of them, trying to find the hidden meaning that Potter has left for him like a treasure map. He can understand Potter’s reluctance, the shift from _need_ to _want_ and how difficult is to acknowledge it aloud.

But they aren’t in the bright light of the kitchen, or the easy atmosphere of the living room. Now they are buried in the dark, where they can’t see each other’s expressions. They can only read the tone of their words, feel the shifts in body language as they move.

It’s more honest, perhaps, and at the same time, it is easier to _be_ honest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” It’s a question this time, not an order. It’s an offer to listen without recrimination, to discuss perhaps, if there is a discussion warranted. It’s a chance to open up, and Draco finds himself hoping that Potter _does_ want to talk, that he _does_ want to delve into a discussion of whatever this is between them and perhaps poke at the edges of where the bond lies and what _isn’t_ the bond at all.

“I’ve been thinking about sex,” Potter says quietly, breathing the words over his skin. “Specifically, I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”

Draco makes a motion to say _go on_ before he remembers that Potter can’t see him, so he makes a small noise instead, not wanting to interrupt the thread of thought, but wanting Potter to know that he’s _listening_.

“You were talking about tying me up. With the yarn.” He can almost hear the embarrassment in Potter’s tone, but Potter keeps on going, bulling ahead like the brave Gryffindor he is (here, in the darkness where no one can see). “And you… you’ve held my hands over my head before. Held me down.” Potter’s words pick up speed. “You’ve put me on my knees and I’ve thought about that, too. And it’s odd, you know? Kneeling for you, because on the one hand, you’re _Malfoy_. But on the other hand, there’s the bond, and I just want to make you cry because I make you feel so good. And then there’s… I liked it. I liked being held down, I liked being told what to do. It was… it was freeing. I could let go.”

“Does it feel good because of the bond, or because it feels good?” Draco’s hard again, aching and thick, the tip of his prick leaking against the sheets. The idea of Potter bound and tied is heady; he wasn’t lying about wanting to try it. But he wants Potter to _want_ it, not just _need_ it. He wants it to be something that they try together.

“Yes,” Potter admits. “It soothes the bond, but I wonder if that’s in part because it soothes me and lets me accept the bond.” He touches the bracelet, and Draco feels the brush of his touch on his own wrist. “It reminds me that we’re bound, just like this does. And I… I like it.”

Draco mulls it over, gives Potter time to think about what he’s said as well. He wants to scream _yes_ and start right away, but at the same time, he wants to give Potter an out. And he tries not to think about that, about how differently he feels from when this began. “If I were to summon the yarn, you would be amenable to being bound with it, then?” Draco asks slowly.

“More than amenable.” Potter’s agreement comes so quickly that Draco might almost term it _enthusiastic_. “I want that, Malfoy. If you want, then I want it.”

Draco isn’t going to ask again. He can feel the way Potter’s hips shift, rubbing his hard prick against Draco’s thighs. With Potter wrapped around him, it’s impossible to disguise the fact that Potter is absolutely aroused by the thought of being bound _by Draco_ , and that he has his absolute consent. “Just give me one moment.” Draco tugs the sheets down, exposes him. “And take off your pants, Potter. You won’t need them for a while.”

Draco tries not to watch as Potter tugs down his pants, revealing his already-leaking prick that bounces back, hard against his stomach as soon as he stretches out. Draco summons the remains of the friendship yarn, quickly knots it into something resembling a tangled length of soft rope. He lays that on the bed, finally looking at how Potter lies there, legs splayed and arms lifted above his head, reaching for the headboard, and he stutters in his movement then. He needs to stop for a moment, look his fill, because even in the dim light that comes in from the moon outside, he can see the way Potter waits for him, his body loose and ready and his prick hungry for attention.

Draco shoves his own pants down and kicks them off to the side, not caring about neatness in this moment.

“Are you certain?” he asks, giving Potter one last time to change his mind.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Potter raises his eyebrows, the motion barely visible in the dim light, and it heats Draco up to see it.

The problem is, the answer is _yes_. This is absolutely terrifying in how perfect it is, how perfect _Potter_ is, laid out like this, waiting for Draco to take control. He won’t admit it, won’t say how he teeters on the edge of the precipice, ready to fall at any second. Instead he simply reaches out for Potter’s wrist, wraps the soft braid around it and ties a quick knot. “You wish,” he murmurs, and Potter sighs.

Draco weaves the braided yarn around Potter’s wrists, lashing them together first before lifting them high over his head. He imagines the bond, can almost see the way the bright colours overlay the magic between them. Draco twists the yarn, makes sure it is perfectly tight, and he feels the way Potter tugs against it as well, relaxing when the knots do not give way.

“I am going to lash this to the headboard,” Draco tells him, taking advantage of the moment to touch him, drawing a finger down his arm and smirking when Potter whines and twists away from the too-light touch. “I am not going to gag you, although I have to admit, it’s tempting. I’d love to try to make you scream when you know you can’t; I’d love to see if I can make you cry out despite the gag. But not tonight. Not this time. I want you to tell me immediately if anything’s wrong.”

Potter’s breath comes short and a little fast, chest rising and falling. “How do you want me to tell you?”

Draco considers for a moment, laughs as a thought occurs to him, while Potter gives him a concerned look. “Say aardvark,” Draco tells him. “If something’s wrong, if you need me to stop, say _aardvark_.” It’s the oddest thing he can think of, the strangest name for a Muggle animal that he’s ever heard. It was something Millicent said once, a strange creature that she knitted and that Draco would have sworn came straight from Luna’s imagination.

“Why don’t you just want me to say _stop_?” Potter asks.

Draco lets his hand trail down Potter’s torso, twists his nipple lightly in response. “Because I think that you might whine _no no no_ and you won’t mean it,” he says quietly. “Because I want you to be able to resist, to be able to pretend that you are at my mercy. I don’t want any confusion between us, and I want to know that when you say _aardvark_ you want me to stop immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

That’s all Draco needs, the final assent. He pushes Potter down, puts a hand flat against his chest and holds him there until Potter struggles, twists beneath him. “I am going to take you apart,” he tells him. “I am going to make you lose control, make you scream until the neighbours worry. You are at my mercy, Potter.”

“Fuck.” Potter whines, hips lifting, entire body twisting, and something aches in Draco to take control of this. Potter is so _perfect_ that Draco can hardly bear it.

He begins with the throat.

Draco straddles Potter’s hips, lets his prick brush against Potter’s skin as he leans forward and licks the line of his throat. When Potter whines, bucks beneath him, Draco nips warningly at the soft skin behind his ear. He sucks it in, leaves a bright mark against dark skin before he moves on, kissing along the line to his collarbone. He sucks another mark there, right in the tender hollow of his throat, sucking until Potter pushes up, twists his hips and Draco stills.

“Problem?”

“Fuck,” Potter whispers, breathing hard, but he doesn’t say _aardvark_ and Draco moves on.

He laves the skin beneath the collarbone, starting at the outer edge and drawing his tongue in, kissing and nipping along the way. He moves down to one nipple first, drawing the flat of tongue over the small nub, lapping at it roughly over and over until Potter begs and Draco takes it into his mouth, sucks hard and nips before letting it go. He moves to the other side, teasing until the skin is red, then goes back again, over and over until Potter is whining, whimpering, begging for more.

Draco presses down with his own hips, keeps Potter from moving, from having the chance to stroke his prick along Draco’s to get relief.

He slides backwards, presses his hands against Potter’s hips to hold him in place. “Relax,” he whispers in a kiss against his hip bone, and Potter only pants in response.

Draco slides further back, kneels between Potter’s legs. He grips his knees, pushes them apart just enough to expose Potter’s prick to him more easily, give him room to come in close. He kisses the inner part of Potter’s thigh, rubs his cheek against it while his hand rests against his other leg, almost close enough to touch his bollocks but not quite.

“I want to hear you beg,” he whispers, and Potter responds with a drawn out _please_.

“Just suck it,” Potter whines, and Draco huffs a small laugh.

“Are you ordering me to suck your cock, Potter?” Draco asks. “Are you telling me what to do?” He isn’t going to give in, not to an _order_ from the man he has bound to his bed. A request, perhaps, or when he’s begging because he’s so desperate that he might come without being touched. But not an order, no.

Draco leans back, hands against Potter’s thighs, settled with his thumbs so that they are just beneath his bollocks. “Maybe I should just stop if you’re going to order me around.”

Potter twists, pulling hard against the yarn that binds his wrists. His entire body arches, hips bucking up, prick bobbing so that it almost brushes Draco’s lips. “Please,” he whines. “Oh fuck, Malfoy, _please_. I just want… I need… I want to feel your mouth on me. I want to… I want to…”

“I want to see you lose control,” Draco murmurs, and he licks at the head of his prick, just once, just enough to tease and taste the small drip of fluid gathering at the tip. He licks his own finger, wets it until it’s slick, then says, “Remember, _aardvark_ if you want me to stop at any time.”

It will be damned near impossible at this point to pull back, but he will if Potter asks.

“I’m fine,” Potter gasps. “I just… don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Draco strokes along his perineum, slides back to circle his hole carefully, just barely pressing the tip of his finger in. It isn’t much, a taste of what might come and perhaps a tease, or a little overload of arousal as soon as Draco sucks him into his mouth.

He doesn’t take it slow, opening his mouth wide as he lets Potter thrust in. He uses his hand to hold Potter still again, then works him hard and fast with his mouth. The flat of his tongue, hollowed cheeks and suction, wet and sloppy with spit. Draco doesn’t let him thrust, controlling the pace with his own movements, taking him in and almost letting him slip out, swirling his tongue around the head before taking him back in. He reads the tension in Potter’s body, feels the way his body stutters when he tries to twist in his bonds. There’s a frantic edge to it, words giving way to nonsense sounds punctuated with _please_ and _fuck_ and _ohgod_. And it hurts how much it feels _good_ to do this, to take Potter apart inch by inch and reduce him to instinct and nothing more.

Draco backs off the first time that he feels Potter get close, lets him slip completely free of his mouth and nuzzles at his thighs instead, sucking in first one bollock then the other, then licking up the inner crease of his groin. He waits until Potter relaxes, until he stops begging, before he takes him in again, the first swallow slow and easy. He drives him back to the brink in inches, steps forward and darting back again, until Potter dissolves into a steady stream of begging interspersed with whimpers and groans.

And Draco orders him then, whispers, “Come, _now_ ,” around his prick and Potter groans long and loud, entire body tense as his prick jerks and salty fluid fills Draco’s mouth. He swallows, lapping at the spurts and licking him clean.

He feels the shivering begin as Potter’s body goes lax. Draco surges up over his body, untangling the yarn and releasing the bindings. He gathers Potter in, tugs the blankets over them as he curls protectively around him, holds him tight and murmurs nothing words of reassurance, touches him all over to remind him that he’s not alone.

It takes time before the shivering slows, but the tension never returns, Potter comfortable and lax in Draco’s grip. He finally sighs softly, and Draco can almost feel the awareness returning. “All right there, Potter?”

“Perfect.” The word breathes out on an exhale as Potter turns in his arms, nuzzles in close and tucks his face into the crook of Draco’s neck. “You?”

_Hard_. Draco bites back the word because that’s not how he wants to put it, even though he’s fairly certain that he’s more rigid than than the most rigid of wands at this moment. “You are so perfect, Potter,” he murmurs instead, stroking his hand down Potter’s side, just lightly feeling the way muscles move beneath his touch. “You come so beautifully. I almost got off just by watching you.”

There’s a moment of tension and Draco whispers nonsense, still stroking until Potter relaxes.

“Do you want me to get you off?” Potter asks, and Draco wants to say _yes_. He’s going to say yes, but there are qualifications.

He takes Potter’s hand in his, brings it down to wrap around his prick. He forces himself to stay as still as possible, not bucking up as Potter holds on tight, strokes once to test the grip and the angle.

“Stay relaxed,” Draco tells him quietly. “Just take it easy. There’s no rush, and frankly, I’m already close.”

Potter hums agreement, his fingers moving idly over Draco’s prick. It’s almost too soft to be arousing, but the smell of sex in the room and the fact that it’s Potter makes the bond thrum between them. Draco thrusts into his grip, and Potter makes a pleased noise, holding on just a little tighter.

It’s a slow, easy wank, with Draco cradling his own bollocks, idly playing with them while Potter tugs him off. When he comes, it slides through him on a low groan, a slow spill of fluid over Potter’s hands and onto Draco’s abdomen.

It leaves him lax in the wake, drifting and half asleep. He feels the gentle cleansing spell that Potter casts slide over him, and he murmurs his thanks. Then he wraps an arm around Potter’s shoulders, pulling him in to pillow his head against Draco’s shoulder as they both slide into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Harry heads over to Strings of Fate as soon as the workday is over on Sunday. He smiles slightly to see Malfoy hold up one hand, not letting Harry interrupt his knitting as he finishes out the last few rows of the hat he’s been working on. “I just need to seam it, and it will be complete,” Malfoy says, reaching for his bag.

“Why don’t you finish it now?” Harry looks around, not sure what to do to occupy himself, but there must be _something_. “It won’t take long, and Molly won’t mind if we’re a little late. Ron might assume…” His voice trails off because if they are late, he knows _exactly_ what Ron and Hermione and probably everyone else will assume. He licks his lips, realises Malfoy is looking at him, one eyebrow arched.

“We could do that as well, if you’d like,” Malfoy drawls, and Harry bites back a laugh.

“Finish the hat. Bring it with you, show it off,” he says. “There will be time enough to satisfy the bond later.” It’s not what he wants to say, but he has no idea how to confess to Malfoy that _yes_ , he just wants the sex. Also the cuddling, and the sleeping. He’s in over his head with no concept how to put it into words and be sure that he won’t be rejected. While the night before had been fantastic, he doesn’t think Malfoy understood everything he was trying to say.

Malfoy gives a lazy shrug, then bends his head over the hat. His brow furrows as he works, and Harry realises he doesn’t need to find a distraction; he can just watch Malfoy. There’s an intensity to the way he works. He remembers it from when Hermione first learned to knit, her work haphazard and rushed. Malfoy has the same level of focus, but every stitch is carefully measured, consistency maintained. The process itself is almost beautiful. Elegant.

After the seam is complete, Malfoy quickly weaves in the ends and holds the hat up on his steepled fingertips. “There must be someone who needs a hat,” he muses. He tosses it and Harry catches it, feeling the softness of the yarn against his fingertips. “Choose someone,” Malfoy orders. “Give it away.”

That’s not at all what Harry expected, but he supposes it’ll make a good hostess gift perhaps, or a conversation starter. “Have you got everything you need for the evening?” he asks, as Malfoy packs his bag and sends it to the back room.

“I don’t need anything in particular. I suspect that knitting and alcohol will not combine well.” Malfoy retrieves a cloak from the back. “Do you need to stop at home before we go?”

_Home_. Harry’s mouth opens, closes, and he blinks several times, wondering if Malfoy even realises what he’s said. “I… no.” He collects the tote he stashed in the back earlier, after picking up several carefully charmed packages of ice cream. He drops the hat in on top, and raises the bag. “I promised Arthur I’d bring ice cream from Bertie’s.” Malfoy makes a face, and Harry has to laugh. “I don’t plan on eating it either, but Arthur seems to think it’s a treat, and Luna’s determined to make sure Dudley tries it.”

“Your cousin,” Malfoy says, his hand falling to the small of Harry’s back. Malfoy guides him to the Floo, then holds out the tin of powder.

“My Muggle cousin,” Harry elaborates, just in case Malfoy doesn’t already know that. He has to assume that Luna mentioned the relationship, since he can’t remember if he’s spoken about Dudley since this all started. “Out of all the people in the magical world he could possibly date—and if you’d asked me when we were eleven, I’d never have expected this to happen—he’s dating Luna. The strange thing is that it seems to work.” He takes a small handful of Floo powder and says, “It’s the Burrow,” and reaches for Malfoy with his other hand.

They go through together, tugged along in a way that keeps the bond sated, spilling out on the other side. Malfoy brushes soot from his trousers, while Harry tries to push his hair back into order. He barely has time to get his hands down before there are arms wrapped around him, a kiss soundly smacking against his cheek. 

“Thirty minutes late!” Ginny calls out, hugging him hard. “Who had thirty minutes?”

“Bloody hell, I was sure it’d be at least an hour,” Ron grumbles from somewhere Harry can’t see.

“Oi, I’ll take it.” George holds out a hand. “Give over, Gin. Just because you lot thought he’d be distracted shagging Malfoy.”

“Actually, I was waiting for him to finish up—” Harry stops speaking when George yanks him out of the way of the Floo, the flames springing up as soon as he’s moved. He can’t see Malfoy anymore, but he hears the clipped tones, polite and measured, as Malfoy greets Molly.

A group of four comes through the Floo, led by Millicent and her pregnant belly. Goyle follows quickly after, a heavy bag over one arm and a tray of biscuits in his hands. Flint carries a huge basket through, a blanket covering whatever is inside, and Oliver Wood trails behind him with a bowl of something that smells vaguely like spiced and savory meat.

Oliver nudges up to Flint, shouldering him lightly. “I’m just going to take this into the kitchen, and I’ll tell Molly you’ve brought something she’d like to see, yeah?” Flint rumbles a response too low for Harry to hear, and Oliver chuckles as he walks away, calling out, “You brought yarn. It’s the great equaliser in the Wizarding world. Stop worrying.”

“Don’t mind Marcus; he’s not the most social of beasts,” Millicent says, one hand on her belly. “We’ve brought yarn and wool, since we figured there were enough folks here that might want to see some of it. And food, of course; can’t go somewhere without bringing food.”

“It’s already chaos,” George says cheerily. “Don’t worry, I don’t think it can get any worse. Food goes on the table in the kitchen—if you can find a spot for it. Mum’s already cooked enough for three families our size, plus guests, and everyone’s brought something with them. Yarn ought to end up in the living room; don’t think it’d be best to have it by the bonfire. Alcohol’s right over there.” He gestures to where Harry can see an entire bar set up, Charlie behind it and serving drinks. “Just settle in. No one’s a guest here. If you’ve been invited, you’re treated as family.”

He heads off, showing Millicent and Goyle the way to the kitchen, and Harry’s left with Ginny by his side. She stands with her arms crossed, smirking, head tilted as she considers him. “You look good,” she finally says. “I hate to say it, but this thing with Malfoy agrees with you.”

“That’s not a topic we’re talking about today.” Harry feels his cheeks heat. “And we’re not shagging.”

“So you shagging Malfoy is the Wormbler in the room that we’re not talking about?” Ginny laughs. “Good luck with that. There’s never been a family nosier than mine and our friends aren’t any better. Besides, Ron said you might as well be shagging, after the way he saw you snog. If you’re not, why not?”

If she’d asked at the beginning of the week, the answer would have been simple: because it’s Malfoy. But now that doesn’t matter. And they’re doing just about everything _but_ shagging, and it’s starting to seem like why the hell not? 

Would it make it any worse? Would _shagging_ make Harry want Malfoy _more_?

They are still intimate, so _very_ intimate when they sleep and live in the same home. 

Ginny grins at him. “That’s what I thought. So get on that already, just… not here. Mum would have kneazles if she found you shagging in dark corners. Remember that time she found Ron wanking in the shed?” Harry winces because _yes_ he does remember that, and it was a terribly scarring moment. He can’t imagine how Ron ever could even think about touching his own prick after that.

“I’m just going to go…” Harry gestures at the door, not sure exactly _where_ he’s going, but he knows _why_ he’s going.

“To find Malfoy.” Ginny finishes his sentence. “Dean’s outside, if you’re curious, and Luna’s got Dudley by the fire. There’s plenty of drink to go around, so raise a glass. You’ll be taking the Floo back tonight, so no worries about splinching yourself. Just enjoy and relax.”

He can’t tell her that he was more relaxed in bed with Malfoy last night than he is here, surrounded by his adopted family and friends. She wouldn’t understand.

On the other hand, he’s positive that finding Malfoy will help put him at ease. Harry touches his bracelet briefly while he waits for Charlie to pull them both a pint, then takes the glasses and heads out to find Malfoy.

#

It takes time to extract Malfoy from his conversation with Molly; Harry stands close by, waiting quietly as they speak. When Malfoy pokes at Harry’s hip with a hand hidden from Molly, Harry interrupts to say that he’d like to introduce Malfoy to his cousin, and as soon as Molly agrees, he grabs Malfoy’s hand to tug him along.

Luna and Dudley aren’t the only ones by the fire. Lavender is sprawled on top of Dean and Seamus both, a baby cradled in her arms. She waves lazily at Harry before she returns to cooing at the redheaded infant, who giggles and smiles. 

“You know everyone except Dominique, I think,” Harry says, gesturing at the baby. “She’s Fleur and Bill’s second child. I’m guessing Fleur’s off chasing after Victoire?”

“Nah, mate, Fleur’s with Bill and they’re going to be _late_.” Seamus grins, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Harry’s cheeks heat as Malfoy grips his hand. “Padma and Parvati offered to take Victoire down to the field to run around a bit with Teddy.”

“Is all of Hogwarts and their progeny here?” Malfoy asks dryly. “Or is it just that the Weasley family has expanded to include everyone in Gryffindor and half the other houses?”

“Didn’t I hear there were some Slytherins coming?” Seamus counters quickly. “Don’t insult it if you’re a part of it.”

Harry can hear the insecurity in Malfoy’s voice, the anxiety that he attributes to being alone in a crowd. “These gatherings tend to get big quickly. Ginny’s dating Dean, who’s best mates with Seamus and Lavender. And Lav knows Bill, too, since they were both bitten by Greyback, so she’s like part of the extended family already.” He figures her nascent relationship with Charlie is still something private, and leaves it out of the list, seeing the way she smiles slightly at him in thanks.

He points to a place in the distance, knowing Malfoy won’t be able to see the home over the hill. “Luna lives over there, not all that far away. Angelina’s dating George. And I think you know everyone else, yeah?” He pauses, considering. “Well, Oliver showing up with Flint was a surprise.”

“Not really,” Luna offers quietly. “Haven’t you seen the pictures from Puddlemere’s matches? Marcus is always there in the background. They think they’re being subtle, but really, anyone can see it who looks.”

It reminds Harry just how much Luna sees because she _does_ pay attention and actually _looks_.

“Make room for the pregnant woman!” Millicent’s voice sings out, audible before she rounds the corner, Goyle close behind. “Molly told me to come out here and steal the practice baby. Thought I ought to know which end’s up and how to change a nappie.” She shakes her head, making a disbelieving noise. “As if my own Aunt didn’t have me changing nappies when I was wee and her children were even smaller. Course, Marcus hasn’t bothered to give me any younger cousins to practice with, either.”

Lavender sits upright and budges over tight against Seamus’s hip, making space for Millicent to slowly lower herself onto the ground next to her. As soon as Millicent is stable, Lavender spills the infant into her arms, and Dominique blinks up at her new holder and yawns widely.

“Huh.” Millicent reaches out to lightly touch the infant’s lip, smiling when Dominique grabs her finger and stuffs it in her mouth.

“I think Marcus and babies is a medical impossibility,” Luna says. “I don’t think that Oliver would like to be pregnant, and Marcus doesn’t strike me as the maternal type either.”

Wait.

Harry leans back, whispers in Malfoy’s ear. “Men being able to get pregnant isn’t _real_ , is it?”

Malfoy snorts softly, wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and tugs until they’re both sitting, Harry sprawled in Malfoy’s lap. There are lips against his ear, kisses on his throat as Malfoy whispers, “Whatever Luna says, it is _not_ possible. Neither Oliver nor Marcus are likely to turn up pregnant, nor will you.”

Harry shivers, both from the touch of Malfoy’s mouth on the shell of his ear, and from the words, from the _image_ that it brings up. There seems to be no doubt in Malfoy’s tone that Harry would be the one being fucked, and even though he’d never really thought about it before _this_ , right this second Harry can’t think of anything else.

It’s all too easy to imagine, especially after last night. Maybe he’d be bound again, stretched out and exposed while Malfoy opened him up, pressed into him. Harry squirms, prick already thickening, and he feels Malfoy’s chuckle against his skin. Teeth close against his throat, a warning that makes Harry stop moving.

Doesn’t matter; he can feel that Malfoy’s thinking about sex too, and that alone makes him want to drag Malfoy off and _do something_.

He doesn’t need to. But he _wants_ to.

“Drink!” Seamus sends over two glasses filled with a dark amber liquid, and Harry takes a long gulp, surprised at how mellow this dark beer seems to be.

There’s a never ending supply of beer and firewhisky, and Harry indulges freely. He chats with Seamus through a drink or three before getting caught by noticing that Malfoy has turned towards Dudley and looks like he’s waiting for a moment to speak. Harry’s breath catches in his chest, wondering how this could possibly go, his old enemies meeting for the first time.

Malfoy shifts and Harry realises that he’s leaning around him to reach out with his right hand, clasping Dudley’s hand and holding on firmly. 

“Good to meet you,” Dudley says. “Luna’s been on about you for days, else it would’ve been right odd to see Harry here with a bloke.” He cocks his head. “All right then, it’s still odd, but she said it’s the way shite’s supposed to be, and I believe her.”

“Magic couldn’t possibly make Harry do something he doesn’t want to do already,” Luna says placidly, her head resting against Dudley’s shoulder. “He’s been bound in his own way to Draco since they were children.”

“What about the Imper—Imperetable—” Seamus stumbles to a halt, waves a hand at Harry. “What about that?”

“Harry shook it off,” Malfoy says, giving a look down his nose to Seamus. It almost makes Harry laugh except he stops, any words caught in his throat, because what did Malfoy say? And besides, Malfoy’s still talking. “It happened in class. Don’t you remember?”

“Ah right, same bloke that turned you into a ferret, wasn’t it?” Seamus laughs outright at Malfoy’s look. “Bloody hell, it was a good one, you have to admit. You were a fucking prick.”

“You were,” Millicent agrees idly, still focused on the infant in her arms. She’s the only one not drinking, a glass of pumpkin juice near her side, while Goyle has a tumbler of firewhiskey. 

Malfoy makes a disgruntled sound, shoulders shrugging. “So was Harry,” he says.

Everyone looks at Harry, and he opens his eyes wide, a bit surprised to suddenly be involved in the conversation. “Er. Sometimes, yes, but you were far worse than I was. Except where you were concerned. We were both utter pricks to each other.”

“And now you like to rub your pricks _on_ each other.” Seamus falls backwards laughing, the sound only getting louder when Lavender manages to rescue his drink before he spills it.

“You’ve had enough,” she tells him, hauling him to his feet and throwing him over her shoulder. “I’m just going to go dump this one inside to rest a bit; you lot go on. I’ll either be back or I won’t, depends on who’s still inside to chat up.” She wiggles her fingers and walks off, Seamus waving from where he hangs down her back.

“That was my point,” Luna says firmly. She leans up to kiss Dudley’s cheek, and it’s interesting how his big cousin melts under the touch, his skin tinged a faint rose. “Our Harry is too strong for magic to take hold. If a bond tried to tell him what to do, he’d just shake it off.”

Dudley nods seriously, expression considering. “Seen him stare off death itself,” he says solemnly, and Harry thinks about correcting him, that the Dementor wasn’t so much _death_ as _despair_ , but the difference isn’t all that important right now. “If he wants to be with you, he’ll be with you. It’s just good to see him happy. War wasn’t good for him.” He makes a face. “We weren’t much good for him, either.”

“How do you mean?” Malfoy’s arm is heavy against Harry’s back, his fingertips tight on his hip as he leans forward. In profile, Harry can see just how intent Malfoy is on Dudley’s words, and Dudley flushes in the face of his regard.

“My Mum and Dad—they didn’t like magic,” Dudley says quietly. “Scared of it, really, thought it was unnatural. Scared the shite out of me, too, it did, back then. Not now.” The look he gives Luna is quiet and open, as if she hung the moon, and she brushes her lips against his in response. “They didn’t treat him right, and neither did I.”

“It’s in the past,” Harry manages to say, but Malfoy raises a finger to touch his lips.

“Hush, Harry,” Malfoy says solemnly. “Your cousin and I are speaking.” Malfoy returns his attention to Dudley. “Do go on.”

“It _is_ in the past,” Dudley says. “Harry’s fucking brilliant. Saved my life more than once, didn’t have any good reason to talk to me after we were done and grown. But we’ve mended shite and put it behind us. And this isn’t all that bad, and it’s not going to kill me, now, is it?”

“There _is_ the little death,” Luna tells him, shifting to straddle him and nudge him back while Millicent barks out a sharp laugh.

“Not _here_ ,” Millicent says, and Harry has to hope that Luna hears her because it looks like she doesn’t really _care_. And there are things Harry doesn’t need to know about his cousin.

“He loves her,” Harry says quietly.

Malfoy turns to look at him, head tilted as he reaches out to cradle his face, thumb light against his lips. “Does he now?” he responds, and Harry doesn’t have anything else to say. Instead he offers Malfoy another drink, which is accepted with a small smile and a silent toast before Malfoy drinks it down.

#

After several more drinks, Harry is floating in a pleasant warm haze. He’s being held by Malfoy, and the dark is brightened by the blaze of the bonfire. There are voices everywhere, couples and piles of people, including Lavender curled up against Charlie while Seamus apparently naps by her feet. Luna and Dudley wandered off for a while, then returned so that Dudley and Malfoy could sit next to each other and discuss cooking.

_Cooking_.

They managed to move on to knitting after that, and Dudley now proudly wears the hat that Malfoy finished just that afternoon. It’s odd, but at the same time, it seems to fit perfectly.

“Harry.” Luna crouches next to him, touches his elbow. Her eyes are wide and bright, hair shining luminously in the firelight. She waits for him to look at her, captures his gaze and stares at him. “You ought to take Draco off and fuck him,” she whispers. “It would fix the bond.”

“Having sex would break the bond?” The concept doesn’t make sense, particularly with how much _not_ sex they’ve been having so far. Luna bursts out in laughter, but her gaze never wavers when she shakes her head.

“Of _course_ not,” she tells him, hand patting his arm. “It would cement the bond. That’s all you’ve ever wanted, Harry. Make yourself happy, this once. You deserve it.”

“Does Draco deserve it?” The name is a slip of the tongue, spilling out and Luna smiles when he says it, as if he’s done something particularly brilliant.

“Of course he does,” she tells him, crawling behind them both to get back to Dudley’s side. “You both deserve each other.”

“I’m not certain if that’s a curse or a blessing,” Malfoy—no, _Draco_ —says dryly.

Harry rolls the thought around in his mind, and he decides to kiss Draco while he’s thinking about it, slow and long and drawn out, just teasing at the seam of his lips without pressing in. There are shouts and Harry’s pretty sure Ron’s thrown something at him, and it’s Ginny yelling that they ought to get a room.

“Let’s walk. It’ll be quieter.” Harry stumbles on his way to his feet, holding out both hands. They waver into each other, holding themselves upright by leaning hip to hip. Harry tries to keep his expression serious, looking around at faces he can barely see past the flames. “I am taking Draco for a walk.”

“Mum’s somewhere around,” Ginny reminds him. “Don’t get caught!”

Harry has a response for her, but he’s also fairly certain that Draco doesn’t want him to say it from the tug at his hand so he lets it go. They move away from the light, heading into the field back behind the Burrow. No one’s there anymore, and it’s quiet if they can get to the tree line, far from prying ears.

“I am rather drunk,” Draco tells him as they approach the trees. “Your friends have very nice alcohol.”

“We do know how to drink,” Harry agrees. “Did you know you were calling me Harry?”

“It’s your _name_.” Draco catches at Harry, tugs him with him as he spins around, back to one of the trees as they sink to the ground in a tangled sprawl. It seems like a good time to kiss him, so Harry does that, reveling in the taste of him. “You used mine as well,” Draco murmurs against his lips.

Harry pulls back, puts his hands to either side of Draco’s shoulders so he can look down at him. “I have had your cock in my mouth,” he says quite seriously. “It only seemed right that I ought to have your name on my lips.”

He doesn’t have time to think before he’s on his back, Draco’s hips pressed into the cradle of his own, his hands held high over his head. Draco stares down at him, hair lit bright with the pale light from the nearly full moon. “I…” Draco trails off, closes his eyes when Harry lifts his hips to press them closer together. When his eyes open again, the pupils are wide and blown. “Luna’s right,” Draco says quietly. “If we fuck, it would cement the bond. There would be no chance of untangling us. Magic has rules, Harry, and intercourse as a binding agent happens to be one of them. Consummation of an intent.”

“I dream about you fucking me,” Harry responds. He would reach up, but Draco still has his hands pinned, so he carefully rolls his hips again. _Intent_. “I think about the way you would do it, the way you would get me ready. What it would feel like.” He licks at his lips, suddenly so dry with the words breaking free. “I think about how close we would be.”

Draco’s head drops, forehead falling against Harry’s shoulder. “We are already close, Harry. You and I are almost as close as two souls can be, remember?”

And if they did it—if they had penetrative sex—they’d be bonded. Closer even than they are now. Harry is fairly certain that the thought should terrify him, but in the aftermath of alcohol, all he feels is loose and relaxed and accepting. “Do you think Luna is right about the rest?” he asks.

“That we should simply fuck each other and finalise the bond?” Draco pulls back enough to tilt his head, raise one eyebrow, and Harry laughs out loud.

“That we were always heading here.” Again he lifts his hips as emphasis, but he also twists his hands in Draco’s grasp, manages to tangle their fingers together so that he is holding as much as he is being held. He loves the way Draco’s gaze darkens, seems unguarded in the face of his question, and Harry wants to keep him off-balance.

“I think she’s right,” Harry tells him, the words rushing free. “I think we’ve always been tangled up in each other somehow, but we couldn’t see it, not with a war between us. And now—now I’m falling for you, and sometimes it hurts. Not like the bond hurts, not exactly, but somewhat the same. Because I keep expecting you to find the answer and then it’ll be gone. And you’ll be done with me and I’m not done with you.”

Draco goes very still, and Harry worries that he’s gone too far. He can feel each unsteady breath, the ghost of warmth against his skin as Draco leans down close and brushes his lips, soft and quiet and chaste. “I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you,” Draco whispers against his lips, and Harry groans with want and need.

Not need from the bond, but a desperate desire to be closer, to be naked and skin to skin. He wants that rush of feeling, but he wants the intimacy. He whines, twists in Draco’s grasp, and is surprised when Draco lets him go, sitting back abruptly.

“I will not fuck you,” Draco tells him, silent until Harry nods his understanding. Draco has his face in his hands, and Harry could just sit here, falling into his eyes. “Do you trust me?” Draco asks.

He does. He absolutely does. “Completely,” Harry says. With his heart, with his body, with his soul. It all belongs to Draco.

The smile he gets in return is wicked, and Draco rolls abruptly to his feet, leaning back against the tree. “On your knees,” Draco murmurs, and Harry is more than willing to comply.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Something has changed between them.

No, _everything_ has changed between them. Draco knows that they can’t go backwards from this moment, as irrevocably as if they had already sealed the bond. Words cannot be unsaid.

But he can’t let go of the niggling fear that the words come from the bond itself, that if it were just Potter and Malfoy—Harry and Draco—that Harry might never had said them at all.

In this moment he can’t entirely bring himself to _care_ , however, not when he is up against a tree and Harry is on his knees, fingers picking at Draco’s fly, rushing to get it open. Harry yanks Draco’s shirt free of his trousers, then yanks the buttons free, pushing the opening wide enough that Harry can nuzzle in, rubbing his cheek against where Draco’s hard prick lies beneath his pants.

Holy _fuck_ it feels good.

“Merlin.” The word escapes on a breath as Draco tangles his hands in Harry’s hair, twisting his fingers in the wild locks to hold on tight. Harry looks up at him, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, and Draco waits, reminds him quietly, “Just say _aardvark_ ,” but Harry only nods and drops his gaze to Draco’s crotch.

Harry shifts his knees, giving himself a more stable base as he kneels there. He tugs at Draco’s pants, pulling them down just enough to get his prick and bollocks free. Draco twists Harry’s hair, draws him forward as he thrusts, and Harry opens his mouth to take Draco in. He lets Harry control the pace, lets him choose how far and how fast, but Draco keeps him in place.

His good boy. Harry is so fucking perfect on his knees, lips parted as Draco slides over his tongue. Harry looks up at him from under thick eyelashes, and Draco is tempted to spill right then and there, to splash over his lips and cheeks. He shudders as he holds himself back.

“Undress,” Draco whispers, letting go of Harry’s hair. When Harry hesitates, Draco lifts an eyebrow, waits to see if he will say the word or not. 

But Harry just strips his shirt off, then shoves his jeans and pants down in one go, tossing everything into a rumpled pile. He sinks back to his knees in the dirt, puts his hands on Draco’s hips and pushes him back against the tree, swallowing his prick to the root.

Draco presses a hand against his mouth, not willing to cry out so that someone might hear. “Merlin.” Another oath, deeper this time, rough in his throat. “Fuck, Harry. Get up here.” When Harry doesn’t stop, Draco grabs his hair, holds him. “ _Please_ ,” Draco says, voice catching and breaking slightly. “Come up here, where I can hold you. We’re going to do this together.”

Harry comes to his feet in Draco’s arms, sliding into a kiss that echoes Draco’s desires to plunder Harry deeply. Not yet, not yet, but he will, he hopes, and soon. He breaks the kiss and turns Harry to face the tree, placing his hands high above his head and keeping them there with a sticking charm. He adds a cushioning charm between Harry and the tree—he doesn’t want any rough bark grating on tender bits—then slides in close behind Harry.

Draco has one arm about Harry’s chest, hand pressing tight against the thump of his heart. His mouth is on his neck, nipping kissing onto his shoulders, while his other hand drops to his hip. He’s close enough that he can press his hips in and slot his prick between the warm, soft cheeks of Harry’s arse. One slow slide has him close to crying out again, loving the heat and pleasure of his skin.

“Draco,” Harry whispers, and Draco shivers at the sound of his name on Harry’s lips. He responds by kissing Harry’s name into his skin, over and over, biting it and sucking it until he leaves marks dotted across his shoulders. He keeps one hand over his heart while he drops his other to grasp Harry’s prick, stroke it slowly down to the tip, rolling his hand firmly over the head. Harry shudders and Draco whines in response, thrusts again and again until he shakes with the effort not to come, not quite yet.

“Come for me Harry.” The order is painted on the curve of his neck, words bitten into him. And Harry responds so beautifully, body arching with a groan as he jerks his hips forward, prick spurting over Draco’s hand. He can’t hold back, not when Harry is lost in the throes of his orgasm, and Draco thrusts once more before painting Harry’s back in thick white streaks.

They end up on the ground moments later, cushioned by a charm, Draco wrapped around Harry to keep him warm. He knows, academically, that he must still be drunk, but Draco just feels wide awake and alive, as if the energy of the universe pours through him. He lightly kisses the tip of Harry’s nose, then his forehead, and smiles when Harry simply nuzzles closer, face pressed against his throat.

“Take me home,” Harry murmurs.

“This is your family gathering,” Draco reminds him. “Don’t you need to say your farewells?”

Harry makes a dismissive noise. “You know they all think we’ve left already to shag.” He picks at the buttons of the shirt Draco is still wearing. “So we should go home. I want to be in bed with you, and I want you to be naked. I want to wake up with you in the middle of the night, and if you decide you want to wake me up with string wrapped around my wrists, that’s fine too. I can’t think of anything better than the idea of waking up with your lips on my body, your touch against mine, or your fingers slowly working me open. So just… take me home.”

The trust that Harry puts in him is immeasurable, and Draco’s heart aches just listening to him. He can’t betray that trust; he won’t betray it. He touches Harry’s cheek, waits until he looks up to meet Draco’s gaze. “My home is yours, for as long as you want it,” he says carefully. “Gather your things. We’re going home.”

#

Draco can’t sleep. He dozes for an hour with Harry sprawled half across him, the bond thrumming happily between them. He can’t get the hat out of his mind. The _pattern_. He can see it when he closes his eyes, can see the needles twisting the thread together into interlocking stitches, creating a perfect weave. He draws in a breath, lets it out slowly and tries to think of something else. _Anything_ else.

Everything keeps bringing him back to Harry.

He carefully moves the arm that lies across his chest, tugs up the blanket to tuck Harry in to leave him warm before he slips from the bed. Draco pads on bare feet out to the living room, summoning the last book he was working with and opening it on the coffee table. He hunches over it, reading through the pages of magical string theory, understanding burning around the edges of his brain. 

Draco casts the diagnostic spells again, sees the light of the bond stretching from himself to the bedroom, tangling around his core and leading back to Harry.

He can see it now, the faint rise and fall of the interlocked threads, the way they have been knit together by Harry’s magic, and knit into himself as well. He knows how to complete it, and he knows how to undo it.

“What are you doing?” Harry’s voice is tired and slow. His hand falls onto the nape of Draco’s neck, lightly massaging along the column of his spine. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“You knew I couldn’t have gone far,” Draco says, but it means nothing. He understands what it is that Harry actually means, and he wants nothing more to tuck himself into bed again with him, curl up and forget what he knows.

But he can’t. This is what they’ve been trying to find for most of a week, and he has to tell him.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just sits next to Draco, one hand on his back, the other curling over his knee. He waits, and Draco can feel the heavy silence drawing out between them, feeling it weighing as strongly as if the threads that wrap around them were real.

“I know how to fix it,” Draco says quietly. “We’ve been knit together, but the bond is unfinished because it only used my wand. You can’t knit with one needle, after all.”

“That’s why it’s hooked to your magical core and not mine.” Harry nods his understanding, and Draco is pleased that he followed Draco’s train of thought so quickly. “So do you think you can knit it properly if you have my wand?”

“I think I can _un_ knit it,” Draco snaps, looking down when Harry goes tense. He struggles to find the words, because he knows what he has to do, and he knows what he _wants_ to do, and they aren’t the same thing at all.

“If I knit you into it,” he says finally, “it will be as final as if we had consummated the bond. We would be unbreakably bound, core to core, and there would be no beginning, no end, and no way to undo it.” He licks his lips, clenches his hands together. “If I do that, we will never know what of this is us, and what is the bond.”

“Then unravel it,” Harry says, and Draco wonders at the tone. He can’t figure it out, can’t understand why Harry sits back and puts space between them, as if he no longer wants to sit flush against Draco.

“I can’t.” He’s thought about it—the easiest way to take apart a knitting project after all is to tug at one end and turn it back into nothing but yarn. “If you think about it as knitting, this bond is still on one needle—my wand. If I tug at the end, it’ll just knot the mess around the wand, and it would likely cause me pain. If I pull the needle out, it’ll unravel completely, but then the magic would be separate from the wand. Separate from _me_. I don’t know if it would ever be able to be put back together again.”

“So what are you going to do then?” Harry crosses his arms, green eyes dark.

“Tink,” Draco says. He smiles faintly at Harry’s confused expression. “Knit backwards,” he explains. “It’s unraveling stitch by stitch in a controlled fashion, ensuring that it doesn’t simply go to chaos, but is done in a careful way. So that the magic will remain attached to my core, and with luck, my wand will remain mine as well.”

“Tink,” Harry murmurs.

Draco grips his hand, stands and pulls Harry with him. He puts his hands on his shoulders, lets them slide up to cradle his face. “It’s late,” he says quietly. “We’ve been drinking, and even though I’m sure I’m sober, and I’m also exhausted. We shouldn’t be making complicated decisions, and I want to go forward knowing that if we… if we do this.” He leans in, kisses him for punctuation. “If we do this, I want it to be you and I, not the bond, making the decision to do so.”

“But you could unknit us now,” Harry says slowly, and Draco nods.

“Yes, if you get your wand, I can unknit us now.”

Harry gets up without another word and walks away.

Draco finds him in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, wand held loosely between his fingertips. Harry looks up, twirls the wand in his hand and offers it to Draco. “I’ve watched you knit for several days now, but I never thought I’d be the project.”

“Tink,” Draco says quietly. There’s a cold, unsettled feeling in his gut, discomfort winding through him. He isn’t sure if it’s the bond reacting, or if it’s nerves, or if it’s just the fact that he no longer wants to be separated from Harry. Or maybe it’s just too much alcohol and too little sleep.

He takes the wand and sits next to Harry, knocking his knee into him lightly. “Look at me,” he says.

Harry turns, but his gaze settles on a point somewhere past Draco’s shoulder. Draco touches his face, waits until he meets his gaze, and as soon as he does, all the words disappear from Draco’s mind. So instead he leans in, kisses him feather-light, and stays there, leaning forehead to forehead.

“When this is done,” Draco whispers. “When it’s done, I’ll still be here, and you will come back to me. Because Luna _is_ right: this is where we’ve always been heading. No matter what you did that bonded us, no matter what I unknit, there will always be a thread between us, drawing us back together. And I want that, Harry. I want you. I just want to be absolutely certain that you want me too.”

He summons his own wand, and they end up sitting on the bed cross-legged and facing each other. It’s the reverse of how it all began, with Draco holding both wands in his hands, instead of Harry and Draco holding the one wand between them. Draco can see the pattern in the weave around them easily now, can pick up a stitch with one wand while carefully unwinding it with the other. 

It shifts and changes as he goes, the magic receding back into Harry or his wand, or flowing back to Draco. He can feel the tightness around his core lift with every stitch undone, can breathe more easily without a strange itch rising beneath his skin. He wants to touch Harry as he goes, reassure him that the bond isn’t necessary to their connection, but his hands are occupied with the wands and the magic.

Harry is too quiet, hands clasped in his lap, eyes wide as he follows Draco’s movements. Draco isn’t certain if Harry can see exactly what he does, but he can guess that Harry is trying to watch the unweaving of their bond.

There is a moment when Draco realises he holds the last stitch on his wand, that the bond lies stretched thin between them, pulled taut by the magic ready to snap back where it belongs. He twists Harry’s wand, gently lifts the strand away, and feels it snap back into his core. Draco drops both wands to the bed, closes his eyes as he bends over, hands on his gut as if he can hold the warmth in, cradle his own magic within himself.

The bed shifts, and when Draco opens his eyes, Harry is standing, tucking his wand away.

“It’s done,” Harry says, and Draco nods. There is no longer something pulling them tight, and as Harry walks further away, Draco doesn’t feel it. Harry walks out, goes to the furthest end of the apartment and there’s nothing. No sense of loss, no sense of completion when he returns.

Only an appreciation for a handsome man parading around in his pants.

There’s a sense of loss as well, as if something absolutely and vitally important is no longer connected to his soul. Draco swallows down the frustration, lets his fingers drop to the bracelet still twisted around his wrist. It’s a dim echo of what it was before, but it still gives him a sense of wellbeing—a sense of _Harry_ —before he lets his hand drop away.

“You should test this,” Draco encourages. “Try going home.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Harry gathers up his clothing, tugs his jeans on and does up the buttons. “If I fall to the ground writhing in pain?”

“Then your friends will send you back through, and we’ll try again,” Draco says. But he knows it will work; he wouldn’t suggest it if he thought it would cause either of them pain. “Just go, Harry.”

Harry makes a small noise, takes a step back. “Fine. Yes. Of course I’ll go.” He grabs his shirt, yanks it over his head; it’s too rumpled to fall neatly, leaving the strip just above his jeans bare to Draco’s view. “Let me just do that.”

Draco follows as Harry stalks into the living room, grabs the tin of Floo powder. He’s not close enough to reach out for Harry, to even get a chance to say goodbye before Harry is ducking into the fireplace and calling out his address, and the flames change colour and swallow him away.

Nothing happens.

Draco curls his fingers around the bracelet, twists it on his wrist. When a few moments pass and still nothing happens, he sinks to sit on the sofa, wondering if perhaps he ought to just go back to bed or if he should stay here, waiting to be absolutely certain that Harry is all right.

He’d know if something were wrong, wouldn’t he?

Perhaps not, without the bond between them.

The flames flare again, and he sees Harry’s image among them. “Came through fine,” Harry calls out. “Since I’m here, I’m just going to sleep in my own bed tonight. Catch up a bit with Ron and Hermione, maybe.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Except Draco had somehow expected that Harry would come back, that he would come _home_ to Draco again. That the bond would be dissolved but nothing would change.

Perhaps they weren’t already tangled before this began. Perhaps it was only the magic after all.

The flames die down and Draco slowly stands, makes his way to lie down in a bed that feels too empty without Harry in it. He pulls the blankets around himself, buries his face in Harry’s pillow and inhales, trying to find some sense memory of him there. He wraps his fingers around his own wrist, and falls asleep to the imagined thrum that he can feel through the friendship bracelet, wondering if it’s going to be like this from now on, if everything will just go back to normal as they go their separate ways.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Harry steps through the Floo, stumbling on a loose stone on the hearth, falling to bang one knee on the floor. He bites back an oath, the hiss of sound echoing in the darkness, and manages to get his hands under himself to push back to his feet. He isn’t drunk anymore; stone cold sober instead after Draco’s spellwork stripped the bond away. But he feels off-kilter. Unhinged. As if his anchor to the world around him suddenly shifted and he doesn’t know how to get back to true.

His stomach tilts, but he’s okay. There’s no tearing pain in his gut, only a mild sense of nausea and discomfort. He breathes in slowly, turns back to the fireplace and kneels down carefully on the hearth, mindful of the ache in his knee. There are footsteps behind him, and he figures that it has to be Ron or Hermione, or perhaps both of them. He holds up one hand to silently say that he’s all right as he sticks his head into the flames and lets Draco know that he’s just fine and he’s going to stay here tonight. It’s almost surprising how well Draco takes it, and Harry’s stomach swims uncomfortably at the thought that maybe everything has changed back to the way it was.

He leans back and lets the flames die down.

“So, that’s it, mate?” Ron asks. When Harry finally stands and turns, Ron is leaning against the wall, hair mussed and only half-dressed, with Hermione clad in one of Ron’s shirts that hangs to her knees standing by his side.

“Draco unknit the bond,” Harry says, because he’s not sure if that’s _it_. Does he want it to be over and done? Is Draco done with it? “I don’t… I don’t know anything else.”

Hermione moves away from Ron, takes cautious steps towards him. “Do you want to talk about, Harry?”

No, not really. Not at all. His gaze flickers from her to Ron, and he swallows hard. “Not sure about that. It’s just…we’re unlinked. I’m here. I’m okay. Right?”

“You don’t look okay, mate.” Ron shakes his head as Hermione reaches Harry’s side, touches his arm. “Look, if you’re bothered by what happened with Malfoy—just remember he’s a pointy-faced git.”

“It’s not that.” Harry spits the words out, winces when he realises how harsh he sounds. “I’m not angry at Draco,” he says more quietly. “I’m just still slightly drunk.” _Lie_. “And I’m exhausted.” _Lie_. “And I just need to sleep.” _Lie_.

He doesn’t really need sleep, not yet. He doesn’t know _what_ he needs, but he knows that at this moment, he’s wide awake and far too sober to process what has happened tonight.

“Maybe you should just sleep then,” Hermione suggests, and when she tugs at his arm he goes with her, heading into the hall and down the path to his room. It’s a familiar trail for his feet, but at the same time, it somehow seems wrong to him, as if he’s a stranger in this space.

“Maybe, yes,” he agrees, if only to get them to step away and give him some space. Ron still looks worried, and Hermione hovers close as if there’s something she can _fix_ tonight. Harry doesn’t even know if there’s anything to fix at all. He doesn’t know what’s _broken_ , only that something _is_.

They haven’t moved, so he does his best to paste on a smile, and isn’t entirely sure if he succeeds. “I’ll be all right,” he reassures them. “All I need is some sleep and I’ll be just fine. It’s a new week tomorrow, right?”

“Course it is,” Ron says.

Hermione pulls him in for a hard hug, and Harry does his best not to cling in return. There’s a part of him that wants hold on tight and cry, but he can’t understand it, so he doesn’t, instead slowly disengaging and saying again that he’ll be just fine. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He takes a step into his room and waits until Hermione retreats and he can close the door between them, leaning on it with both hands as if they might open it again.

He pads over to the bed and sits on the edge, toeing off his shoes and leaning down to yank off his socks. He stops at that moment, wavering before he pulls off his jeans; somehow it just doesn’t seem right to sleep mostly nude. He falls back on the bed, then inches up until he’s lying in the middle of the bed. He grabs the blankets and creates a cocoon, head tucked under his pillow to block out the sound of murmuring voices from the room next door. They’re either talking about him or getting back to the shag that he might have interrupted, and Harry doesn’t need to hear either option.

For a moment, he considers having a quick wank, but as soon as his hand moves he shivers and stops. Maybe not. It just doesn’t feel right.

He touches the bracelet on his wrist and his breath eases as he falls asleep.

#

Harry rolls over as he wakes, throws an arm around someone who isn’t there and makes a small noise of discontent. “Draco?” he calls out before he’s fully coherent, blinking into the light of a momentarily unfamiliar room.

His room.

_Fuck_.

This is _not_ where he wants to be.

He rolls out of bed and strips off his clothes from the night before. It only takes a few minutes to shower off and dress again in fresh clothes from what’s left in his drawers. By the time he makes it to the kitchen, Ron is sitting at the table along with a basket of warm rolls and a pot of jam.

“Mum sent them home with us last night; said we needed something good to eat in the morning.” Ron nudges the basket closer to Harry. “You ought to eat something.”

“I need to get to work.” Harry drops into a seat, reaches for a roll and pries it open with his fingertips. He summons the butter from the fridge and drops a small bit onto each half, then closes it up again to let it melt.

“I’ve already talked to George, and I’ll be going with you today,” Ron says, grabbing a roll of his own. He’s grown past the point of talking through a mouthful, so he pauses long enough to chew and swallow before he continues on. “Hermione and I talked last night and figured that you might want some help today.”

Harry thinks about telling him that he’s fine, but if Ron’s there, then Harry can… 

Then Harry can…

He grins suddenly, and tears off a bit of roll and pops it in his mouth. “Definitely could use some help,” he says. “Might have to step out of the shop for a little while. It’d be good to have someone there to cover for me while I’m gone.”

“To go see Malfoy,” Ron says, gesturing with his roll.

“To go see Draco,” Harry agrees. The name feels better on his tongue, even in the light of day. He’s sober, he’s not bonded, and it’s still _Draco_. “He’s a git, all right? But he’s _my_ git. No matter how much of a fucking prick he is, I’ve fallen in love with him and I need to get him to wrap his head around that.”

“I’d say that’s new, but I think we’ve already covered that it’s not.” Ron has a rueful smile as he grabs another roll and leans back in his chair. He balances carefully on only two legs in a way that Harry knows drives Hermione absolutely mad. “You said last night that he fixed the problem you were having?”

There’s a part of Harry that wants to say that it wasn’t a _problem_ , even though he knows it started out as one. He toys with the roll, picking off small pieces to pop in his mouth one by one. “He’s unknit us, yeah. So we’re no longer stuck to each other.”

“But?”

“But we talked yesterday—before he broke it—and said the bond didn’t matter.” Harry still hears Draco’s voice saying _I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you_. He let him leave the night before, but Harry realises that he’s the one who _left_ and who stayed away. “I need to tell him that it still doesn’t matter. That I’m still in love with the git. That it feels odd _not_ to be with him, that my bed isn’t right. That—”

“Don’t need the details.” Ron has both hands in the air, pushed towards Harry as if he can stop the flow of words. “You said _bed_ and I’m pretty sure that anything coming after that is more than I need to know.” He lowers his hands slowly, makes a face. “Unless you need to talk it through. I mean, I’m not such a bad mate that I’d leave you hanging if you need to figure things out.”

“The one thing I don’t need to talk through is the sex, Ron.” Harry grabs another roll as Ron sputters. “Draco and I figured that one out on our own. I am _definitely_ not completely straight.”

“I told you _that_ after I caught you snogging,” Ron mutters, his ears as bright as his hair.

“You were right.” Harry nudges him under the table. “How often do you get to hear that?”

“With Hermione around? Not all that often, unless I’ve been brilliant. Which has been known to happen.” Ron grins, nudges Harry right back. “So does all this mean that Hermione and I have the flat to ourselves now?”

He could go _home_. The thought hits Harry in the guts, twists around and leaves him breathless with want. He nods slowly. “If everything works out like I want, yeah, you guys are on your own. I’m going to go talk to Draco this morning, and after we’re done today, hopefully I’ll be going home.”

“You need to pack then. Don’t think we’ll be bringing you more clothes every week.” Ron waves at the door. “Go on, get that done. Then we’ll get out of here and you can go talk to Malfoy.” He pauses, then emphasises, “ _Talk_. All right?”

Harry licks his lips, thinks about just how much he missed having Draco wrapped around him this morning, and pushes to his feet. “Sure, talk,” he agrees, even if he’s lying. Ron doesn’t have to know what Harry’s thinking; it’s probably much better that way.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Monday morning, Draco steps through the Floo into the back room of Strings of Fate and straight into a pile of— “Is this _sheep dung_?” he asks sharply, as Millicent looks up with an expression of innocence. She’s sat in one of the two chairs in the back room, her belly rounded and being used as a table for her ball of yarn as she calmly works a pair of socks two at a time.

“Marcus brought in one of his sheep and her lambs,” she says, tone light and amused. Her fingers move quickly over the stitches even without watching her own work. “One of them didn’t take well to the Floo. He’s out front adding an expansion to the shop for a petting ring, and it’s not like I was going to get down on my hands and knees to clean up.”

A pen for petting sheep in his _shop_. Draco hears the faint bleat of a hungry lamb, and sighs inwardly, resisting the urge to press his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. “Of course. I’m certain you remember your housecleaning spells, Millicent.” He casts a quick _Scourgify_ at both the floor and his shoes, although the scent lingers. Perhaps he’ll pop over to Myriad later, see if they have anything that might smell better than sheep. “Perhaps a little _warning_ might be nice before bringing live animals into my shop?”

“You sound snippy this morning.” Millicent sets the knitting down carefully on the table, then leverages herself to standing. “Didn’t you get a good enough shag last night?” She glances at the Floo. “Speaking of our Saviour, where is he this morning?”

There’s a moment where Draco isn’t sure he can breathe, everything just _stopping_. He inhales and holds it, waiting until his chest is loose enough to set it free. “At his flat, where he ought to be,” he finally says. “I figured out how to break the bond last night. I suppose he’ll travel directly to his own shop this morning.” He shrugs as casually as he can manage. “It’s not as if he is mine to track.”

Millicent huffs, and before Draco can protest, he’s yanked into a smothering hug, her belly pressing against him as she holds him close. He’s grateful for the lack of advice or sage words; he’s not in the mood for someone telling him what to do right now. He just wants to get through another day and go home and try to figure out how to make it feel like _home_ again without Harry in it.

He’s Harry still, not Potter. Draco’s fairly certain that he’ll never be simply Potter again.

He manages to extricate himself from Millicent’s comfort just as the flames flare and Greg steps through, nose wrinkled as he catches the odors lingering in the air. 

“Did Marc really bring the sheep?” he asks. “I thought he was just having us on last night.”

“This came up last night?” Draco asks, because he has absolutely no memory of this particular discussion.

“It was late.” Millicent dismisses the topic. “You and Potter had already gone off to do whatever it was you were doing.”

“And none of us were going to go try to find you to ask permission at that point,” Greg says with a grin. Draco rolls his eyes, reminding himself that Greg doesn’t know yet that anything’s changed. Greg lifts the box he’s carrying in his arms, and Draco swears he sees the hanks of yarn moving around, peering over the open top. “Brought in some more of Marc’s experiments, too. I’m just going to drop these here and get myself to work, yeah?” He sets down the box and _yes_ , those hanks are moving around, bouncing slightly to catch air before they fall back.

Greg leans in to kiss Millicent and Draco turns away, not interested in the open display of affection or murmured words that are just a little too low for him to hear properly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Greg’s hand fall to Millicent’s belly before Greg draws back and ducks into the fireplace, grabbing a handful of powder on his way. Draco doesn’t hear what Greg calls out before he disappears in a swirl of flames.

Someday he really ought to find out what exactly it is that his best mate does for a job.

“Thought about calling that one _Flying Fuck_ but it doesn’t really suit,” Millicent muses. “Doesn’t have a proper name yet. Marc’s charmed it to be light, flies a bit on its own. There are two different weights in there—sport and worsted—don’t worry, we don’t have flying feet with sock yarn. And I think you ought to know that thanks to Lovegood, he’s all about breeding ghost sheep now. Expect invisible yarn in the future.”

“I’d like to be able to see the products I’m selling.” Draco snatches a bouncing hank of yarn from the box, feeling the way it flutters around his fingers. It’s soft and silky, and he wonders what it would be like to have a jumper made of it, or perhaps a cloak. “Does it felt?” He runs his fingers over it again, pressing a little bit between his fingertips. He unravels the end, not waiting for a response before he wets his fingertips and rolls the yarn, testing to see how it behaves under dampness and heat. When it goes smooth and supple but retains the fluttering properly, he slowly smiles. “ _Flights of Fancy_ ,” he says. “And I think you ought to knit a cloak for display in the shop.”

Millicent snorts, dropping back into her chair. “You can knit your own bloody cloak, Draco.” She points at the front of the shop. “Don’t you think you ought to be opening up about now?”

“My shop, my time, my rules,” he tells her, even as he lifts the box to carry out front. There’s a new section of the shop, bowed out to the left of the counter, into the empty space at the end of the street. A sheep bleats at him from where it stands in a pen filled with straw, and two lambs gamboling at her feet. She makes another noise and Draco sets the box down to approach slowly.

While he’s handled yarn for years now, this is his first encounter with an actual _sheep_.

“Pet her,” Marcus says gruffly from where he crouches, working on the pen. Draco lets his hand fall atop the fluffy head. It’s silkier than he thought, but rough as well, a strange combination under his fingertips.

“Name’s Aurora,” Marcus tells him. “The white lamb, that’s Belle, and the wee black one is Ariel.” He ducks his head, focused on finishing up the side of the pen so the sheep can’t get out. “Oliver named them.”

That makes the corners of Draco’s mouth tilt up into an almost smile. “You and Oliver, then.” It’s not a question. While he didn’t see anything overt between them, the mere fact that Marcus brought him along to a gathering was enough of a confirmation for Draco.

Marcus grunts his assent. “Me and Oliver,” he agrees. He stands up then, stretches after being crouched over. “Do what you need to do,” he says firmly. “Do what you need to do to be happy. S’not worth it to be miserable your whole fucking life, just because you think something’s not going to fit the way folks tell you it will.”

Advice. Of course. 

Draco turns away, walks over to the table where he left the new box of yarn and starts slowly unpacking it, trying to focus on how to make it stay put rather than the point Marcus has brought up. There’s only silence behind him, and he knows Marcus is waiting for some kind of reaction. “It’s not my decision at this point,” he says quietly, layering a holding spell over the table so that the hanks of yarn can only rise so far before falling back to the table. He turns back, crosses his arms and raises one eyebrow. “I broke the bond last night, and Harry left. Thus, it is up to him whether he returns or not.”

“You could go after him,” Marcus points out. “Don’t let a good thing get away.”

Draco rolls his eyes. As if he hasn’t thought about that option. But he _will not_ do that. He laid his heart out for Harry Potter and then Harry walked away and stayed away. It is in Harry’s hands to decide what to do next. If what they have is real, then Harry might come back. If it wasn’t, then it’s best this way. At least Draco knows the truth.

He presses his lips together in a thin line, tries to slow the rough breath in his chest. “It’s his move, Marc. If this is real, perhaps he’ll make that move. Or perhaps there was nothing more than a manufactured affection, twisted from magic and string. The only way to know is to wait.”

Marcus considers him for a long moment, then nods once slowly. He claps a hand firmly on Draco’s shoulder, hard enough to make him waver in his stance before Marcus withdraws and heads for the back room.

A sheep bleats; Draco isn’t sure which one it is.

“Wait.” 

Marcus pauses, glances back. “What?”

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with _sheep_ in my shop?” Draco asks. “Don’t they need food and water?”

“Food’s in the bin and they’ll eat the hay; just toss more in from the other bin. Let folks give you a knut for a handful of feed and they’ll love it. Keep the water trough full, make sure Aurora’s feeding the lambs.” Marcus lifts one shrug. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve already answered your own question about what to do with sheep dung. It’ll be fine. Folks love to pet sheep.” He heads into the back room and… _wait a moment_.

“Why are you putting sheep in my shop and not the one on Diagon?” Draco shouts, because he never planned for fucking _livestock_ in his shop.

He hears the rumble of Marcus’s laugh. “What makes you think I’m not giving sheep to Millicent?”

“Hey!” Millicent yells, and Marcus laughs again.

There are noises of people moving, and the rush of the Floo; when Draco makes it into the back room again, it’s empty. He vaguely hopes Millicent has more sheep than his own shop, then pities Marcus because Millicent is vindictive on her best days. It’s an argument he’s best to stay out of.

Instead he goes back out and flips his sign to open. When he looks across the way, he can see Luna and Lavender inside of Myriad, the door opening as a young woman steps into the shop. He assumes that Ollivanders is also open next door.

He could go check and see if Harry’s there.

He won’t.

He busies himself creating a sign for _Flights of Fancy_ , then picking out two skeins and tossing them onto the comfortable chair, where they bounce about. It doesn’t take long to find a pattern for a felted cloak among the ones available in the shop, and a set of appropriate needles. He settles in to slowly cast on the stitches, frowning at how difficult it is to work with yarn that refuses to stay still. No matter. He might as well get something done while the shop’s quiet today.

#

The pattern Draco picked is almost like lace, knit in a delicate weave of large stitches and small yarn. He can see from the pictures that it’s meant to felt into a thin, supple flowing fabric for a cloak that he thinks will match perfectly with the flighty aspects of the yarn. However, he realises quickly that it might be a nightmare to finish it, as huge as it will be before it shrinks during the felting process. Even after a few rows, he already feels as if there are too many stitches on his needles, and he decides to switch from straight needles to circular. He pushes from the chair and leaves the project there, fluttering, while he hunts to find the right size and a proper length of circular needle.

The bell rings while he’s on his knees, digging through a stack of needles hanging from a display in the corner. “I’ll be right with you,” he calls out just as he’s found the right set for his cloak.

“It’s okay, I’ll wait.”

Draco freezes because that’s _Harry’s_ voice. Harry is _here_ , in his _shop_ , and Draco can’t stop the way his heart clenches. There’s a shiver under his skin that has nothing to do with a bond and everything to do with anticipation and hope. He forces himself to breathe as he eases the needles off the front of the long hook so that he can get the one he needs from the back, then replaces the others back on the hook. He straightens, wiping his hands down his trousers to remove imaginary dust, and tries to school his features into something professional.

Harry’s standing by the chair, looking down at the fluttering cape, one finger outstretched as if to pet it. He glances up, a small smile tilting his lips, just as Draco speaks.

“Hullo, Potter. Can I help you?”

The hint of a smile falls away, and Draco aches as his gaze shutters. “Are we back to that now?” Harry asks. “Potter and Malfoy? Neighbours who pretend to be friends?”

“There was nothing _pretend_ about it,” Draco says before he thinks better of it, fingers tight around the small package still in his hands.

Something like hope blooms in Harry’s expression, eyes wide and bright. “Good,” he says. Harry moves slowly with careful steps until he stands in front of Draco, reaches out to cover the hand holding onto the needle. “Can we talk, Draco?”

They are not quite out of view of the window, and when Draco glances at it, he can see where Lavender and Luna both stand in front of Myriad across the way, not even trying to hide the fact that they are staring at his shop, even though they can only see the window display. He nods slowly, takes his hand back and tosses the needle onto the chair. Then he closes and locks the shop with a spell and gestures to the back room. “Fine,” he says, proud of the lack of waver in his voice. “Let’s talk.”

Even with the shop closed, Draco still closes the door behind them, gives them a sense of privacy despite the fire burning merrily in the fireplace. Draco hopes that no one decides to burst through the Floo at an awkward moment.

He hopes that Harry doesn’t just want to _talk_.

When Harry just stands there, silent, Draco feels something settle in his bones, easing into the familiarity of the situation. He arches an eyebrow, waits before asking, “Do you need something, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes close at the sound of his name, a small sigh escaping before he opens them again to look at Draco. His hands clench and unclench by his sides as he his gaze sweeps over Draco from head to toe before he responds. “You,” Harry says quietly. “I need _you_.”

Thank Merlin.

Draco closes the space between them, nudges Harry back against the table as he captures his shoulders, holds him in place. He kisses him carefully, just a meeting of lips at first, then licks at the seam of his lips, begging entrance. _Please_ he mouths without words, and he feels his name on Harry’s lips when his mouth opens to let him in. It’s slow and sweet and leaves Draco breathless with the taste of him, shivering under his skin and wanting more.

“You left,” Draco whispers against his mouth. “You _left_.”

“I had to,” Harry says. He pulls back enough to lean forehead to forehead with Draco, one hand touching his cheek. “I had to go, because you wanted me to. You wanted to know that this is just _us_ , and at least for me, it is. I went back to my flat and it felt wrong. You weren’t there when I woke up, and all I could think this morning is that I need to go home. With you.”

“It wasn’t home without you there.” Draco lets his hands slide down to frame Harry’s hips, then places them flat on the table, leaning in to trap him there with his own hips, his mouth, his chest. He presses them together and luxuriates in the way that Harry presses back against him, meeting him touch for touch as Draco kisses him slowly.

“This thing between us…” Draco murmurs, trailing kisses to Harry’s jaw, nipping behind his ear until Harry whines and twists his head, letting Draco draw his tongue along the line of his throat. “This thing between us is real,” Draco says, kissing the words into him. “You and I, we are balanced. String and needle indeed. I cannot be who I am without you. I need you.”

“And I need you.” Harry tilts his head back, his collarbone peeking from beneath the edge of his shirt; Draco rewards its appearance with a red mark sucked against the sensitive skin, loving the way Harry whimpers at the touch. Draco rubs his thumb against the mark as he straightens up, looks at Harry.

“We’re wearing too many clothes.” Draco begins with Harry’s shirt, lifting it over his head as he leaves it hanging off of one wrist and places Harry’s hand against the table behind him. “Don’t move,” he orders, and Harry’s gaze goes dark.

“I won’t.” Harry licks his lips when Draco’s fingers fall to his jeans, deftly undoing the fly and shoving them down. Draco drags them away, tosses them into a corner where they disappear in the darkness.

Draco doesn’t care; Harry won’t need clothes for a long, long time today, if Draco has his way.

“Sit on the table,” Draco directs, waiting for Harry to hitch his hips up onto the surface. “Hands behind you, hold onto the other side. Lean back. And don’t move.”

“Draco…” Harry’s hips shift, and Draco places the flat of his hand against the sharp angle of Harry’s pelvis.

“Don’t. Move.” The words fall into the space between them, and Harry’s eyes go wide as he nods, breath coming in short pants. “Do you have anything you need to say to me?” Draco checks, but Harry shakes his head, and Draco slowly smiles.

He loves Harry like this, barely held in check and beautifully obedient. He loves the way Harry’s prick juts out, thick and rigid, a small drip forming a the tip where it rests against his belly. Draco runs one finger down the underside, from just beneath the head all the way to his bollocks and Harry shudders as he struggles to remain still.

“Perfect,” Draco murmurs. He summons a small footstool and places it down so he can kneel on it, giving himself the perfect height to put his mouth at Harry’s prick. “You may watch,” he murmurs, breath ghosting across Harry’s skin. “But you may not touch.”

He licks from bollocks to head then, soaking Harry’s prick with his spit as he goes. He gives Harry a look, smirking slightly before he takes the round, smooth head into his mouth and suckles gently. Harry’s eyes roll back with a low groan, and he pants before holding his breath for a long moment and sighing it out. 

“Fuck, Draco.”

“That’s the idea, but not yet.” Draco grins and swallows him down, eyes closing at the taste of Harry. Salty and slightly bitter, it’s what he’s come to know, and what he needs on his tongue. He takes him deeply, then pulls off until just the tip remains between his lips. He breathes over him, waits until Harry whines before he takes him in again. “You are so good for me,” he whispers around his prick, the words muffled.

Draco pulls off long enough to lick one finger, then press the tip against Harry’s hole. He teases it carefully, managing to nudge just one finger in to the first knuckle. It isn’t much, but he feels the tight squeeze as Harry shifts, pushing back against his touch. Draco rewards him by swallowing him down again, moving quickly up and down, little humming noises vibrating around Harry’s prick.

He feels Harry’s bollocks draw up, the way his thigh goes tight under Draco’s one resting hand. He ignores the whine of warning, eyes closing as Harry spills bitter fluid over his tongue and Draco swallows every drop.

“Lie down,” he murmurs when Harry is done, and Harry collapses against the table.

There’s a sharp rap on the front door of the shop, a rattling of it that shakes the bell as well.

Draco looks at Harry, who looks back at him, blinking dazedly. “Would someone come looking for you?” Draco asks.

“Ron’s minding the shop today. Said he could stay while you and I talked,” Harry says. “As long as I didn’t tell him any details about how the talk went.”

Draco snorts. He’d prefer that no one knew the specifics and he’s perfectly happy to keep Ron in the dark. He idly touches Harry’s chest, feels the muscles contract beneath his fingertips, and he smiles fondly. “Let me just go tell whoever it is that I’m closed for the day. Then we’ll go home.”

It takes a moment for Draco to tuck his own shirt back into his trousers and to adjust himself, tucking his erection away as best he can before he emerges from the back room. He closes the door to give Harry privacy, and makes his way to the front door as it rattles slightly again before Luna waves from the other side.

Of course.

He spells the door unlocked and opens it slightly, not giving her leave to enter. “Yes?”

“Lavender, Parvati, and Padma are all in our shop, so I’ve come over to mind yours while you step out.” Her blue eyes are wide and guileless. “You _are_ stepping out, aren’t you? I’d think a bed would be far better than the back room, and this way you won’t have to worry about how long you take or worry about losing business.”

Draco straightens his back, puts every ounce of pride he has into his demeanour. “What makes you think that I require a bed?”

“You closed the store when Harry came over.” Luna puts her hand into the small space where the door is open and nudges it wide until Draco steps back and allows her entrance. “Don’t worry, I shan’t pry. I just thought you might want a bit of help, and since you haven’t hired anyone yet, I’ve come over to be a good friend and offer. You two really ought to go solidify your bond now.”

“There isn’t a bond,” Draco tells her, closing the door as he feels vaguely helpless under the invasion. He knows there is nothing on this earth that will change her mind at this point. “We broke it last night.”

She glances at the door to the back room, then looks at him before looking away. “Of course there’s a bond, Draco,” she says with a tired sigh, as if he’s been missing the point all along. “There’s always been a bond. You only broke the one created by the accident with your wand. The ties between you are still just as strong as they ever were, only they aren’t controlling you. This is the bond _you_ created, you and Harry. And really, you ought to go take care of yourselves now. Go enjoy what you have.”

She’s giving him a chance to step out of the shop, to stop hiding and stealing momentary pleasures in dark spaces. She’s giving them both the chance to luxuriate in each other without worries of interruption or being late somewhere.

“Oh, you have sheep! And lambs! I shall have to make sure Lavender comes over to see.” Luna heads straight for the food bin, spilling pellets into her hand and leaning into the pen to offer them to the animals who snuffle at her hand. When she looks back at Draco, she shakes her head. “Go, Draco. The shop will be fine.”

She doesn’t need to ask again; Draco’s through the door into the back room before she’s done feeding the sheep.

“Luna’s here?” Harry asks quietly. He’s still sprawled on the table, his cock curled quiescent and sticky against his thigh.

“Luna’s here, and she’s sent us away.” Draco isn’t going to give her time to reconsider. He simply gathers himself a handful of Floo powder and offers another handful to Harry when he approaches. “Let’s go home.”

As soon as they spill onto Draco’s hearth, Harry presses him back against the mantle, the heat of the fire warm near his legs. Harry’s tongue is in his mouth, his kiss warm and hungry. “Your turn,” Harry murmurs, working the fly of Draco’s trousers undone.

“I had something else in mind,” Draco murmurs, trying to keep his wits about him as Harry’s hand wraps around his prick.

“We’ll get to that, too,” Harry promises, and drops to his knees.

There is no part of Draco that doesn’t want this. He moves slightly to one side, his back against the wall rather than having the mantle digging into his shoulder and the fire warming his thigh. He places his hands on Harry’s head, holds him in place as Harry takes his hard cock into his mouth, bobbing all the way down immediately. He doesn’t thrust, just twists his fingers in those wild locks possessively, as if Harry might somehow disappear and take his wonderful mouth with him. “Don’t stop,” he orders.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Harry pulls back long enough to grin, then he’s on his cock again, and Draco whines at the feel of it, warm and wet and tight as Harry sucks him down. There’s no finesse about it, no attempt to draw out the pleasure. It is sloppy and wet and _oh so good_ , and Draco pulls his hair, tugs at it, trying to warn him. Harry manages a swallow, then he pulls back as Draco comes, spurting over his mouth and cheeks, some of it landing on his waiting tongue.

“I had plans,” Draco grumbles, but honestly, he can’t be angry about it. He’s boneless and limp, ready to sit down on the living room floor. Instead he hauls Harry to his feet and wipes his face clean before casting a gentle cleansing spell.

“Haven’t you ever had a marathon wank session and used a bit of magic to wake your prick up?” Harry says. He insinuates himself into Draco’s hold, winds his arms around him and Draco realises that he’s still _dressed_. Harry is bare-arsed naked and Draco’s still clad head to toe with just his fly open.

“I can’t say that I have. Where did you even learn something like that?”

“Ron.” Harry makes a face when Draco raises one eyebrow. “We didn’t wank together, but he taught me the spell.” He summons his wand and disengages from Draco enough to show him the motion and the verbal component, demonstrating on Draco’s prick, which fills instantly.

It’s an interesting spell, and Draco commits it to memory, imagining some creative uses for it in the future.

“You brought it back to life,” he says, stalking forward and nudging Harry towards the hallway. “That means you have to take care of it now.” They’re still close enough for Draco to squeeze his arse, one finger sliding down the crease suggestively, and he loves the flush under Harry’s dark skin in response.

“Yes,” Harry says. “That answer still stands. I want you to fuck me.”

Draco wonders if he would have been hard at that statement, even without a bit of magical intervention. “Bed,” he orders. “ _Now_.”

They make it to the bedroom, Draco’s clothes falling to the floor in the hall as he strips on the way. He’s just pushing his pants down when Harry climbs onto the bed and falls back, half-hard prick in his hand. For a moment, all Draco wants to do is look his fill, take him into his memory and hold him there.

Harry Potter in his bed, where he belongs.

“I love you,” he says quietly, and kicks his pants away.

“I love you too, you git.” Harry grins and pats the bed next to him. “Now get over here and fuck me.”

Draco licks his lips, heart hammering in his chest because _this is it_. This is consummation of whatever lies between them, and magic being what it is, he doesn’t doubt the significance. “Turn over,” he orders softly. “It’ll be easier for your first time.”

He loves the way Harry trusts him, rolling to his belly, then coming up on his knees with his arse in the air. Draco spreads the soft globes of his cheeks, runs a single fingertip over his hole and feels him shiver under the touch. “I’m going to open you up first,” he tells him, feeling more than seeing the nod of assent.

Draco summons the small pot of lube and warms it with a spell. It’s slick, designed to only need a few drops per wank, but Draco is willing to use the entire pot of expensive lubricant if it makes Harry’s first time perfect. He rubs it over his fingers and begins with just one, slowly circling the puckered hole and pressing in.

He only makes it to the first knuckle before Harry clenches, and Draco stops. He can be patient.

He dips his other fingertips into the lube and scrunches his hand up, spreading it over his palm. He reaches for Harry’s cock, stroking it firmly at the same time as he twists his finger just enough to feel it slide in to the second knuckle. Harry groans and rocks forward into the circle of Draco’s hand, then back again to let his finger slide all the way in.

“Good boy,” Draco murmurs. He strokes him on both sides, fucking him gently with one finger, twisting and turning it to start to open him up, while he wanks him slowly with the other hand. Harry comes to full hardness under his touch, swaying between the two sensations with a low groan.

His next finger is already lubricated, so he pulls back and presses in with two, feeling the way that Harry slowly opens under his touch. He can hear words, and when he leans close there’s a steady stream of _fuck Draco_ that Harry whispers into the sheets, his head bowed and back arched.

He looks so beautiful like this, so perfect, and Draco tells him that, all the while stroking his cock until he feels Harry stutter under his touch. “Are you close?” Draco asks, and Harry nods, whimpering.

Draco pulls his hand away and Harry cries out, breathing hard. “Just a moment,” Draco assures him, grabbing the pot and spilling more over his other fingers, leaving them slick and slippery as he manages to slide a third into Harry’s tight bum. Harry cries out, shivering, and Draco crooks his fingers, stroking inside of him and looking for just the right spot.

He takes Harry’s cock in hand, stroking him firmly. “I want you to come for me,” Draco whispers, kissing his thigh gently. “I want you to come with my fingers inside of you, thinking about how I’m going to fuck you. We are going to fit together so perfectly, Harry, I can’t wait to be inside of you. But right now, I want to feel you.”

He knows he’s found the right spot by the high keening noise Harry makes, the way his breath catches and spills out in a cry. Draco strokes him again, inside and out, and Harry tenses, groaning as his body jerks back and forth, orgasm splashing over Draco’s hand.

By the time he is done, Harry’s thigh is shivering, muscles loose under Draco’s touch.

It’s time.

Draco rises up to press in close behind Harry. He slicks his heavy, hard cock up and presses between his cheeks first, enjoying the wet slide and watching the way Harry shudders every time he goes across the puffy rim of his hole. He opens him up, uses his thumbs to hold his cheeks apart as he finally slowly presses in, feeling the way that Harry’s body gives way to him, relaxes under his touch to let him slide all the way, deep enough to fit Draco’s hips right behind his bum.

“Merlin,” he breathes, and Harry presses back.

It takes everything he has to hold still, to drape himself across Harry’s back and press soft kisses behind his ear. “Do you have anything to say?” he asks softly, and he has to laugh when Harry’s only response is _fuck me_.

Draco pulls back just a little before sliding in again, getting used to the way Harry gives beneath him, the way he pushes back. Harry is pliant, whining low in his throat, almost as if he’s floating along, there purely to be fucked. Draco revels in it for a few thrusts, eyes almost closed, breath low in his chest. He pushes himself up, hands on Harry’s hips, looking down at him. There’s a flush all over his body, russet colour under dark skin, set off by the paleness of Draco’s hands. “I want you to come again,” Draco murmurs, and Harry goes still. Draco summons his wand, brings the spell he’s only just learned to the front of his mind. “Is this all right?” he asks, as he touches the tip to Harry’s prick.

He fully expects to hear _aardvark_ , for Harry to tell him no, that it’s been enough. He expects Harry to just want him to fuck him and finish, and let him lie still for a while.

But Harry whispers _yes_ , and Draco casts the spell immediately.

He feels the moment that Harry’s prick fills, his body tensing around Draco. He nudges Harry’s knees wide, presses his hips down until he’s sure that Harry’s prick must be brushing the bed with every thrust, then he slowly begins to fuck him again with purpose.

He can almost see the magic around them, can almost feel the edges of how they intertwine. It layers over them like a warm afghan, wraps them in softness. Draco rolls his hips, pressing in and reaching for that spot inside Harry again, loving the way he cries out, hands twisted in the sheets. _There_ , Draco knows, and he does it again.

The entire world narrows down to this moment, this connection between them, as Draco slowly fucks every feeling he has about Harry Potter into him. They have known each other for so long, and it comes down to here and now, and the slow roll of Draco’s hips and the faint whine as Harry presses back against him.

_This_. Only this. _Always_ this.

Draco’s movements stutter, his knees shaking and thighs tight. “Come for me,” he whispers, curling over Harry’s back and thrusting just so to make Harry shiver. “Come for me, love, and I’ll come for you.”

“ _Yes…_ ” Harry groans, squeezing tight around Draco as he shakes through his orgasm. There is nothing left for Draco to do but thrust deep, join them as close as he can before he spills inside of him.

He is still shivering in the aftermath, when he pulls carefully from Harry’s body and wraps himself around him. Draco summons the blankets over them, and they lie there, tangled and breathing hard, damp with sweat and sticky from the wet spot on the sheets.

And Draco doesn’t care. He would endure any discomfort to have this, to hold Harry in his arms and have him stay here in his bed.

Their breath eventually grows even, smoothes out and finds longer spaces between each inhalation and exhalation. The shivering stops under Draco’s touch to Harry’s back, and Harry’s fingers over Draco’s chest. They find ease and respite in each other.

“So this is it,” Harry murmurs.

“I certainly hope so,” Draco replies, just as quietly. When he closes his eyes, he sees the weave shining around them, can map the gently curved stitches that bind their cores together. It is soft and elastic, not wrapped too tight to breathe. He knows that it will always be there, will stretch when they need it to, and draw them back to each other gently when they’ve gone too far away. “This is it,” he echoes. “You have me wrapped around your finger.”

“And I’m wrapped around yours.” Harry traces idle patterns over his chest. “We’re bound equally, Draco. In this together.”

“Always,” Draco agrees, and seals the promise with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/52225.html). ♥
> 
> ~~This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at[hd_erised @ livejournal.com](http://hd_erised.livejournal.com/). The author will be revealed January 8th.~~
> 
> Now that reveals have posted, come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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